the questions they never ask you

what color was the noose? how many fibers, precisely,
in the rope? were your eyes open or closed? did your feet
acquire splinters? in degrees celsius, what was the temperature?
what did the barometer read? did you have fanciful dreams
on the preceding night? did you wish you were dead, already?
did you sweat in your bed? were your eyes moist or dry?
when? what color was the sky? what shirt did you wear? why?
what underpants? what socks? which shoes? did they pinch
your toes? did your nose itch or run or bleed? did someone
read the bible? did you believe? did you think anyone would
grieve for you? did your friends abandon you or did they stay?
what did your mama say? when were you last loved by hand?
by lips, by tongue, by word, in writing? did you believe?
how was your hair fixed? who kissed you last? where?
with eyes closed or open? what color were your cheeks?
how many words did you speak in prayer? to whom
would you have sold your soul to go free? what gods
did you believe in when they pushed you off the platform?
which way did you swing? why were you there?
what happened, really? —i promise i’ll believe you.