Remember when we were kids,
and you volunteered
to hold the circus showgirl’s torch
as she swallowed fire
and you set her aflame?
Since you’ve left, mom’s
tear and mascara trails collide,
forming a scattered map of the floor,
one without your location.
Dad thinks you’re lagging, surviving
somewhere with hatchets and matches,
sipping kelp root soup.
I remember you best at summer time,
at our beach, full of stars
setting out into the sky like Chinese lanterns,
and your guitar with its crumbled notes.
And now your lavender soap
I left on the porch for you
has swollen with mold
and no longer foams.
Found in Volume XIV (2015-2016)