Sugar Skull

I tell my friends
that I have a sugar skull.
A sugar skull
I keep elevated
on my shoulders
like a sprained foot
or a glass vase
forbidden to touch
the cracked ground
of an earthquake.

My sugar skull
is one sweet-talker
melting Halloween
candy together
for children
in ghost costumes.
The ghosts eat
it up anyway
sugar spikes
up glucose
but at least
energy isn’t
vibrating the ground.

Some say it could be
the fault’s fault
for sugar to crumble
flying from the clench
of wet fingers griping
for clean aroma
of lilacs
before the dirt
settles behind
fingernails.

My sugar skull
can catch
flies faster
than honey
dripping from
a bee hive infesting
my balcony,
uninviting but
with the strength
to populate
more sunflowers
to bloom
for a Sunday.

My sugar skull
can recite poems
with dirt behind
fingernails from
pencil shavings
and talk silkier
than my lilac hands
can form the movements
to unfold my fists to open
like a sunflower.

I tell my friends
I have a sugar skull
on my shoulders
to remember life
can be sweet.

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