When the grave opens, the interior mirrors sky. You there, gaze in my direction, the way of up. Our hearts emit pounding that shatters pine boxes; even the best mitered edges will split. Some call ours a vampire story, but the waywardness that fills us connects to no dark, no light. It hones the alternate edges of will and capitulation. Who says we can’t hold water in our hands, or that the bottle won’t capture wind?

Wear the dress they buried you in, the lace tatters I’m fond of. Don’t you know we fly past what clothes us anyway? Via your luminous spirit, your skin also luminous, we cheat death. And all those stories of bats and garlic, scapulars and the crucifix merely trap what’s wicked. Our hope breathes beyond the wickedness; we will leap wickedness like wolves at their hunting. In my grave I’ve been waiting, shape-shifting. I made room for you. And for sorcery, sooth saying, the stars at our hip-to-elbows, at our aid.

My love, look up. Open your eyes. Awake. Know your teeth. Know mine.