my mother writes fake obituaries from her bedroom of mirrors. i hear the sound of sirens turning themselves into apples. foreheads falling from their shelves. red is the color of emergency & i wake up one morning to a room of nothing but red. childhood made headlines of me. breaking breaking breaking. once i cut my finger & nothing but confetti came out. our neighbor died & they held a viking funeral. flooded the town. loud speakers bloomed from flag poles to announce the world was briefly ending but would resume in the morning. lately, i talk to death like a protagonist. i say, "did i know this man who turned to dirt?" my mother loves to invent names. she asks if i know the oldest color & i say i don't when i really do. blue goes to sleep some nights & everything is deeper. i dig a grave to bury my telephone. the newspaper arrives. we read a mixture of tall tales & elegies. for years now every day opens with elegy. i have said enough farewells to fill a bathtub. i ask my mother if she remember when i died. she hold up the newsprint square that describes how i died of unnatural causes. hit in the head with a fallen planet to be exact. i fold the paper up & let it melt on my tongue like a communion wafer. no more god. no more typewriter. it's just my mother & i & staircases to the grey-cloud afternoon. "no one at all can die today," i inform my mother. our bodies are quadropled by the mirrors all around. she accepts this. writes fake birth announcements instead.