It would take a long time for me to forget
the sound of your voice, so some nights I call you up
on the telephone and make you say nonsense things,like
dinner plate, shark christmas tree, razor butterfly
until your syllables stretch & break over the phone line.
When news of the Connecticut shootings broke I opened the window
to find you standing barefoot in my driveway in the rain,
your sadness bleeding its colors all over the pavement.
(It’s my favorite part of the rainbow.)
You went to school with Adam Lanza, paid for his lunch one day
with your last two dollars
and held his hand when the sorrow came in waves.
I wonder if you would have done the same if you knew what would
happen in only a few short years.
We made up a secret language, the language of the moon,
cupping our hands to our mouths
and blowing out the candles.
One. You’re dead.
Two. You’re still dead.
When I got to eighteen, I hoped for a resurrection,
but the frosting was as burnt & lonely as
your non-beating heart.
