They dance on your grave, them sweet l’il angels we made together. Your mama thinks it’s sweet I bring ’em here every year, like some kind of memorial to the dead.
“It’ll help them remember their daddy,” she says.
I just nod like I ain’t still trying to forget all you did. If it weren’t improper, I’d dance on your grave myself.
Ain’t no memorial to you, whether you be singin’ in glory or writhin’ in some fiery lake way down deep. I memorialize the livin’, me and my girls and everyone who never had the guts to fight back.