It was cold where they had laid him out,
a life-size voodoo doll pinning us down
with pain. His drums abandoned underneath
the stairwell, all we heard was the thumping
of our blood, the hum of the refrigerating unit.
My sister handed me the scissors. I held my breath,
took a lock of his ash blond hair, snipped it,
sealed it in a plastic bag. I knew he wouldn’t move.
I knew. Horror movies are not real.


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