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Talitha Cume

He died at thirty-four
a year past messiah
but couldn't hold out for three days,
more three flatline seconds.

"I was dead."

He says it to spawn my horror,
my inability to grasp thirty-four's death,
his thirty-nine mischief.
He would have rolled the boulder from the cavedoor,
popped out to yell boo at Mary Magdalene.

"Was dead."

"Brain dead? What do you mean 'was'?"
A pillow swaddles my shrieking glee;
he remembers to throw mine, at least,
not his shammed concrete
that once bonked me, laughing,
and took me to the floor.

"Dead."

I know. I know.
But you only get one try, and that was yours.