Sunday’s Eulogy

Dear Mr. Smartest Chicken Chaser alive, 

In 6th grade I was a lawyer 

In 7th: a prosecutor

Now I'm a painter who knits and you

an astronomer moonlighting as a writer who knows how to set a trap

Together we trade chapstick and communicate through the sounds our stomachs make

In between the oven and the kitchen sink 

The presiding Chicken Catching King pours me a shot 

each time bears are mentioned 

Bruises tonguing yellow 

Fingers painted blue 

I get back aches from missing you 

I’ve never helds hands perennially sweatier than mine 

Clammy fingers finding patterns on gravestones and throwing twigs off bridges

Bluebonnets tangled around your heterografted ear 

Your new conditioner pollutes my bed 

acting as a microscopic catalyst for trumpetting thoughts about tattoos

and a reminder to continue building my vocabulary to unearth new words that mean I love you 

Sundays a synonym for uninterrupted entwinement 

and spit pearling on naked shoulders drenched in striped sunlight 

My dreams lustrated by chickens chewing on frozen popsicle sticks attempting to take flight