Better that he came to me
than his mother. Her soul
threadbared by grief
could not have carried the miracle.
The girlfriends have all
moved away or moved on
and that one boy (“Why not?
A mouth’s a mouth,†and he was
so wrong, embouchure and enthusiasm
leagues beyond any bad girl’s)
now he’s a star who hates to talk
about his hick hometown.
Better that he came to me
the girl next door
ten years younger than he
and unburdened by memory or
expectation.
I inherited this house
with the overgrown hedges.
I inherited him too
I guess.
Hidden by towering boxwood
he sits on my back deck
low to the ground, legs
sprawled and hands spread wide
behind him as he absorbs
the honeyed hours.
And wherever he was before
(“With the angels now,†my mom said
eyes teary at the tragedy
and she was so wrong)
I know it wasn’t heaven
not the way he lifts his face to the sun
not the way he hungers for the light.
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