Here is a picture of the
minister,
circling a near
three hundred and sixty degrees
from where he
melted ropes together around our
wrists
in
Baltimore,
Atlanta,
Chicago.
This morning a friend from
middle school died of
cancer.
I should have woken up earlier.
He was flecked with
leukemia, in a broken
remission.
Two days later he died wrapped in
blankets,
settled on the
couch like
two hands.
We are young. We are
ants, put inside shadows
to
cool off stomach after stomach.
We smack our
lips at the
Methodist punch.
I am
Stevie Nicks on the piano,
shut up in the
fellowship hall at sixteen.
I cry in the
stall between songs
until seven, when the
boy scouts come to replace us.