the dead remember // Taylor Gianfrancisco

grandma had a way of kissing you

on the temple; her Revlon lipstick

an oración for all the spiderwebs

there. every time you wiped

your eyes, the arañacita of water

would crawl across your cheek.

you could taste the bitter salt.

the lemon juice from your hair

trailing down your face as though

the sun is butter. the sun is butter,

you tell everyone as the Florida sky

melts & bruises. you and your little sister

hold your breath every time

you pass a cemetery. the school bus

growing quiet as the tombstones

you’re unfamiliar with reveal

your namesake. you don’t know

how to tell your mom that you saw

how you died that day – the driver

walking towards you like an apparition

in a desert. hands in his pockets,

whistling boleros, as he explains

the bus is in a ditch and the ditch

is on fire.

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Taylor Gianfrancisco is an aspiring writer/poet who lives in Orlando, Florida. She works as an editorial assistant at the literary magazines, JuxtaProse and Helen. Follow her eccentricities and adventures on Twitter at @moondaughterxii and on Instagram at @tayleurmarie. 

Image by Isa