She is a gothic garden with skulls and roses
stretching over her midsection in reds and neon oranges.
She stacks up my vintage tomes
of fantasy and science fiction, and starts her tale.
She tells me her uncle had passed away that morning,
and started the day dialing out memories to her family.
Each call is a pulse that crashed into her uncle,
and every phone number; their voices combined
into a defibrillator, and each time they say his name-
it sparks and crashes against his heart.
Their electric voices resurrect her uncle
and they all cry hallelujah in texts.