Kristin Garth
I Let You Bury Me
I will let you bury me. Pretend it’s just
a fantasy if I would desiccate
in your backyard. Small skeleton you trust
enough to discard. You designate
me scripted lines, yours eulogies to dirt
I swallow after hurts you would tender
a broken girl like me — someone you wish you weren’t
able to see so easily — flower-
bed over my head, made-up marigolds,
to hide the dead. I take an afternoon
to exhume, shovel, carefully controlled
to protect orange golden blooms you prune
to cover me inside an afflicted mind.
I let you bury me a dozen times.
a fantasy if I would desiccate
in your backyard. Small skeleton you trust
enough to discard. You designate
me scripted lines, yours eulogies to dirt
I swallow after hurts you would tender
a broken girl like me — someone you wish you weren’t
able to see so easily — flower-
bed over my head, made-up marigolds,
to hide the dead. I take an afternoon
to exhume, shovel, carefully controlled
to protect orange golden blooms you prune
to cover me inside an afflicted mind.
I let you bury me a dozen times.
The Secret Society of Laura Palmers
for Jennifer Lynch, author of The Secret Diary of Laura Palmer
Our fathers make us Lauras — yours with art,
mine with his heart. We’re their transcriptionists,
the obscenities of seventeen, hearts
they halve, mine hidden, yours bidden by Lynch
himself to just “be Laura Palmer.” Though
you are his own daughter, and 22,
somehow he knew you would imbue his show
with orgiastic veracity. You
speak ripped page diary to me, small beach
town girl opened up some nights, spread leg fire,
deprived books, fingers, flashlights to be a piece
of demonology who he acquired
through genealogy to take apart.
Your father only used you for your art.
mine with his heart. We’re their transcriptionists,
the obscenities of seventeen, hearts
they halve, mine hidden, yours bidden by Lynch
himself to just “be Laura Palmer.” Though
you are his own daughter, and 22,
somehow he knew you would imbue his show
with orgiastic veracity. You
speak ripped page diary to me, small beach
town girl opened up some nights, spread leg fire,
deprived books, fingers, flashlights to be a piece
of demonology who he acquired
through genealogy to take apart.
Your father only used you for your art.
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