I want to close my eyes but something’s
scratching. I’ll let the blood but I can’t
step back from the not knowing.
In the thick,
sick where my bones touch themselves.
You and I held things against 1994,
a broken radio dribbling the news. The
texture of the world was glassy, you were all
Now I know the year when you fall from Raven’s Cliff and
break apart on the rocks and the red dress
your mother wears to burn the pieces and the rest of
you stuck in my teeth rots.
When men are shot from windows in tall buildings there are
volcanic eruptions on other moons but your
foot slipped and I
didn’t hear the splash.