Summer, Atlanta, 1989, handstands
in your pool, and after Marco Polo
we rest elbows on the concrete lip,
and ask each other what it means
to lose your teeth in dreams. At night
we play Contra and pluck carrot sticks
radiating from a bowl of ranch dip.
Skip to 13. We chug gatorade and gin
and you walk a straight line in the kitchen.
Outside I vomit in the daisy bed.
We churn out mixtapes and collages.
Wear corduroys, plaid flannel
and saddle shoes. Prank call. Boys enter.
I can’t keep up and am mean too often.
New friends rotate in. Sleepovers end.
But we are loyal to some original feeling
and in April reach out for our birthdays
up to the last time on the phone ten years ago
when you are in LA and knitting. Trying to
“live in the moment,” you chuckle low
and quip “hope this is it.”
When you’re gone, your dad returns some
of my old letters. It’s your last prank where
instead of hearing your voice, I’m forced
to hear me, pretending not to need
anyone, and worse, misusing curse words.
You’d laugh at the desperation.
Almost as desperate as our first meeting
on the playground swings: Strawberry blond
strands threading the chains, you toe the mulch
and ask, Have you even heard
of the Violent Femmes?
I lie and say Yes.