And I totally died. Was allergic. Tongue swelled right up and I got the grisly pleasure of suffocation, just like the panic
attacks my brain used to make when I was alive. And now, I’m dead
on the band room floor. I chipped my reed when I dropped my clarinet and I feel bad, I already ask
for so many reeds, I think. The flute player with the rash kneels next to my body,
grabs my limp shoulders and shakes me. She shakes and shakes, “Why would you do that?!” she shrieks, “Why
would you do that?! Why would you do that?!” She cries
all the time
so I’m not surprised to see her crying
over this.
Two of the drummers barrel forward. Thunder crescendos,
snares knocked into stands all clatter to the carpet, echoing in the portable.
One grabs the flute player and hugs her, she sobs and sobs
and clings to his shoulders while he stares at my corpse.
The other grabs my hand, he’s wailing my name, ashy knuckled death grip
fingers digging into my joints. I wish I dried my hands better
after going to the bathroom—I just wanted to get back to band.
So now he has to hold a hand that’s dead
and wet.
That must be uncomfortable.
I’ll leave him Pokemon Pearl as apology gift.
Our teacher told the trombone, “Call 911,”, trumpet the office—“Does anyone
have an epipen?!” she screams, before starting CPR. The sax
has always been clever, even since we went to and left the same elementary school twenty miles south,
and he runs out the room to the Sp-Ed class four doors down.
My ribs crack sickly,
bounce off thin walls like a click-click-
click-click of her baton on the rim. Her lips are warm they tremble and she will die of cancer
like we hope my brother won’t.
I found our cat dead and he was my brother’s, but in secret
he was mine. I hid his orange corpse until Grandma got home, then I ran out the door when the truth finally dropped and my brother shrieked,
“Tyson’s dead?!” And his wail
still clangs in my mind like broken pipes. Is that how he’ll scream when he hears?
“Sissy’s dead?!”
Before my soul reaves from my chest I sprint outside again dust kicked up scrapes all
up my arms and I cling to the sticky trunk of my pine where I can’t hear myself die.
We’re all surprised I went first and how stupid, right,
how stupid.
All those reeds left in the drawer
gone to waste.