the sun is high and
                        bright
somewhere. not here

though.
god is digging my grave and i entertain them with my impression of the heat death of the universe. it’s not a very good impression.
is this deep enough, god asks. god is unenthused. a beached whale. a flat tire.
i crawl to the edge to inspect.
not even close, i tell god. i’m legit this time. don’t they say six feet?
god stops digging entirely. god belly laughs. god lights a cigarette and drinks long from a bottle i wasn’t invited to.
is this about a guy, god asks. i tell them backyard tombs are always about guys.
i mean a specific guy, god says.
and yeah, i know where this is going. god has good shame tactics. i take god's bottle and drink. it tastes like heaven. salt and milk and feathers.
so i lie.
this is about frank stanford, i say.
i’m still mad he can’t come to my birthday party.
god smiles, and it’s ******. i wonder if they’ve been ******* on my lipstick again. god points a finger gun at my chest and shoots me with flowers.
see, i say. you do get it.
god says, i made it, and offers me a gloved hand.
gloved because god has no hands.
i climb into the grave like it is my bed and this has been a very long dream.
déjà vu, i say. i wrote about this once.
i remember, god says. god pulls an orange out of their pocket and tosses it to me.
was it even real, i ask.
i hold the orange above my head. i make it the sun. high and bright.
somewhere, god says, raining dirt on my corpse. not here, though.

and i’m sorry about stanford.
maybe this time you’ll learn–