Sometimes I remember my neighbor opening the door as a witch
when I was five & screaming the whole damn evening even when she took her green mask off.
Screams sound different on Halloween but everything sounds different on Halloween
like the look on my son’s face when Prince died, running outside into the rain, the sky
upside down, hitting his skin on a delay, puddles that I have stood in he has stood in & almost drowned. Trick or treat, I am pulling
candy out of a time machine & at the door is Prince in tight blue jeans so young &
two kids as my grandparents together in India & my father as a zombie.
My favorite are the fraternal twins as Jesus & Mary & of course the Krishna, skin bluer
than the sky or a police uniform or an instagram ocean. Treat or trick, they
all say. I want my life to be this blue, something to paint with, something to worship.
I want a costume that is most like this because this day is the closest thing to prayer I know.
I know what my son saw when he was in the rain after Prince died looking not at the breaking
of a storm but a sea of blue imitation gods. I know
what I see when I open the door & put on the mask, over the face that is also a memory,
that is also mine. Welcoming the night next to the witch holding a screaming child.