when you win the sweepstakes

(new years)

things we'll let go of:

we burned these slips of paper
in a metal casserole dish

celine, fear of rats.
"time to go away" she says to things,
then bright red birds, their wings,
and skeletons.

but mostly it was heaven.
mostly it was you returning now and again,
in feathers and smoke, as if we'd have
something to say: this is what god is like,
these are my kids, and stuff.

or staying, like we fake you will,
even when your head become
white and fluff like a baby chicken's.

celine pets my rat,
says you can feel his bones.

i think if i won a million dollars i'd make things.

i saw in a book these quilts with windows, forget
the name of the artist she
says they're cherry blossoms in the wind.

you'd get a house, you say.
you hate this f*****g house. things would get better.

they're mostly white. the quilts. and these windows,
just these strings,
less like blanket, more like ribs.

this other artist just uses sections of wood.
sometimes she burns them to emphasize the swirls,

i try to imagine it's more like that, heaven.
a breath that never ends becomes a slow
and curling wind.

i think if i die i want a pine box
and a white cloth,
and you'll be the box they bury me in.