He interrupted winter with his own.Over chocolate cake & Jimmy StewartI got the news. Couldn’t stay
on the phone long, no roomleft in me for the shaminglanguage: Stupid. Selfish. Waste.
Over time it became the accident—too drunk to count all the pillshe’d taken. No need to discussthe tragedies of lineage. What was in the blood stayed.
His fanged veins, shot liver& all that dark honey chalked upto shit arithmetic. Gilbert, sweetest uncle,saddest vato on the block,moved back in with his parentsthe summer he wasn’t locked up.His P.O warned it was the worstplace to stay clean. I remember the night, loadedon whiskey & H, he played guitarwhile his mamascorched the air in protest howling in the wake of her son’saudible grief, the inconvenientdrawl of requiem. Each song pulled from himlike something stolen,he sang until the starless nightcaved in on itself. Throata wounded calf limpingacross the floorboards. Mama! mama! You never loved us,did you? Mama, why didn’t you try?he sang, in the greenestvoice ever invented. She stood silent in the doorwayas he reached for her—a child beckonedby a cursed spindle&without offering the graceof a single wordshe turned her back to him,strolled into the kitchen& turned the radio on.