there you were, in the fall of 1991, barefoot in a Brooklyn gallery
brush clamped between teeth while a line formed on the other side of the door
unknown and unsure and unconcerned about the madness to follow
you kept the photograph—an artistic black and white, low contrast—on your bedside table
a compass point for early mornings, to remind you of what happened and
what was only a dream
a thousand miles to the west in a heartland cul-de-sac
I spent the evening under my parents’ roof, busied by high school math
insecure over the gap in my teeth and the betrayal of my skin
you told me how anxious you were, waiting for somebody to show
waiting for somebody now dead and in the brushstrokes you left exposed for all to see
how disappointed and empty you felt by the absence
you asked, why weren’t you there? What took you so long?
and I explained that I didn’t have my license then
that I was fifteen until February
This is a serial work in progress, all of what exists can be read here.