Friday, 1 April 2011


It must have been July.
It was the year I responded, "I know" to everything.
The year you toppled off your bike,
and onto your back, rolling downhill.
On the news, there were people dying
and you wrote a poem.
I hid it in my drawer and said it was mine.

You are mine that way.
I have tried to scoop pieces of you up
off the pavement.
I have learned to listen and retreat.
I tell you nothing--

And you flicker. You weave in and out
of my memory like the snake in the garden
I was sure you had made up.

I am not so sure anymore.
I cannot know the nightmares that swirl around you
when you are alone, or what lulls you to stare
at the hopscotch calendar boxes.
I don't know what days your demons decide to
make faces outside your window.

I never found the trail of blood on the asphalt
where you fell off your bike and onto your back,
toppled downhill.

And I don't think I ever will find it.

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