The man who is nigh unkillable dreams about the other side

Melissa Anne

​
 

The boatman tells you not to stick your hand in the water
but you hardly ever obeyed while alive.
You tell the kind sir
to go fuck himself. 

 

If only you could see his face
(no really—
if only you could see his face).

​

You want to smile, all teeth, wide
like a toppled crescent moon.
You want to prop your feet up
and explain to your boatmates
that you hope a giant, 
hell-raised, red-hot tentacle beast
will appear, mangled flesh and all,
and accept your hand with a loving squeeze 
as it takes you whole down the slimy hatchet
before you’re judged for all your earthly sins.

​

Laughter, laughter all around,
maybe some sobbing,
and all of it
right on cue.

​

But this is not a joke. 
A little dove of a wish inside of you 
is already dying desperately
for her hand. Your fingers are shaking in
your pockets, looking for her trail
the same way you used to
on so many nights, thousands of dreams ago:
under citrus-kissed sheets,
at the pinched corners of violet-dense mazes,
through burning clouds of fog—

​

You’d live on this boat
to touch her again, her rings leaving indents 
in your palms, tattoos of promise
or apologies. You want this hell-raised, 
skin-bitten beast to sing the same
way she used to, just for you. You want
the boatman to unzip his disguise
and laugh in your face, the way she used to,
just for you. You want just her,
for you. Even 
drowned. Even
mist. 

​

The boatman is yelling at you now.
You want the empty cavern of your chest
to fill with salty hell-water. Once, 
she told you, you’d die
long before she did. You want to find her 
and call her a liar. You tell the boatman, 
kindly, to go fuck himself.