For T. Zaire. G.

The daytime moon
like a coin of cloud.
One moment from youth
haunting me lately—
your stretch limousine body
on the couch behind the school
auditorium, smoke encircling
you like black koi. I live so
inundated with fantasy
sometimes I can barely see
what I’m holding.
You were my brother’s
only friend, so your death
is just his. But I can carry
the porch swing and your Sea World
tee shirt, its blue bleach tie-dye, you grew
gaunt beneath. Once Reese’s
and gas station pizza, then a craving
for nothingness. My mom called it
your skinny year, like anything returns
to what was. We used to love
to the tell the myth of you
walking out to the car, your girlfriend
all shredded jeans and liquid hair
yelling, she picked up a 2×4 and swung,
cracked it across the back
of your head. And you were so
fucked up that you stumbled,
stood, turned and said That’s why
you missed, bitch! Got in
and we drove off howling. Epic.
How from then on, we’d quote you
to the tossed lighter, the tv remote
or the fries thrown backseat
That’s why you missed, bitch!
As if everything coming for us
would find us but lose. The echo
of your mother saying I keep
looking up the street, as if
he’ll come walking down it,
any minute now…her hands
were shaking. I was standing
there dumbly, with flowers.
Your eyes never lingered, the year
of my body’s embarrassing blossoming.
Looked out for me when my brother was in Juvie.
Saying Leave her be to the other upperclassmen.
After that, the hallways parted
for me, like how suddenly rain
halts. Then the last summer, silent
heat lightning and brown
crystals, all of us in the woods
like lost boys, gnawing
our mouths apart. I was preoccupied
with some girl and the stars
but you are there on the edges
of remembrance, a part
of the darkness, your pulse
an imperceptible beat
in that music. I forget how the night
ended, but I escaped. Someone carried
me home, protected like you
never were. Recurring dream
of you and my brother shadowboxing
in the backyard like you used to
surrounded by slow iridescent purple
snow, you fall on each other
into softness. Thick gloves and full 40’s.
I’m now a part of the living’s
selfish need to depict the dead
in heaven. This year, I wake
to the large hollowness
of my room around me, it feels
about right. A man in my bed
rolls over, gets close. Says Aimee,
I feel so alone. I stay quiet.
As horses dive over
high cliffs toward the ocean
and, crashed-landing,
transform into dolphins.