I have been sending Christmas cards to the dead

they have been answering back 

their hair is matted and the envelopes stick

their lips blistered and slick 

tongues sewn 

a slow tone

pupils fixated

their eyes stuck on seaward ships

it took a while to lift me out and skin my shell

it took a while to master between the slips of frailty, loneliness, and longevity 

it took a while to grind and shine new wings

like moths fleeing a light out of hell

I have been my childhood demon and undertaker 

they have been my patients and caretakers

I cried back then 

before the oxygen would turn on and off 

until the moments broke apart 

I had dreams where I almost believed I could follow them 

the years that my birthday is on a Sunday 

I wait for their letters instead