I imagine I must talk to my dead seventh grade teacher
who told me to be better, who
told off the children when they brought me a butcher knife
because I cannot learn algebra if I am dead.

The deceased are more than likely with the sun
wherever it is right now. Tomorrow’s twilight, I will find
my dead seventh grade math teacher
stand on my tippy-toes,
try to be as tall as him and ask if he still thinks I should be
alive. Five years later and I cannot understand
why a person with his same name could
ruin my life when he, in turn, saved mine. I am a bad
person for wishing she were the one that the flu took then.

Unlike the others,
Mr. Kats did not mention the SATs or growing up. He
would not be there to see either happen
and I bet he believed God knew.

Then again, I knew the side of him that did not
know God well enough to remind me of a Mormon church
until I saw his youngest daughter alone on her knees
whilst the eldest sang about how
her father would never need to move with
a walker. I held my best friend’s hand
when we met his corpse, because he had saved her too.

I imagine we must talk, but not for me to tell him
that I do not care about algebra, I guess he already realizes.
We were never really special to each other
when I think about it,
he was too strict and I was too sad and now it’s too quiet:

I haven’t entered a classroom since, died some as well
but my only punishment
was a broken heart by his reincarnate. There was no lesson.

The first boy who saw me with my shirt off
did not like girls, not yet
not ever

and asked me if it was stretch marks or cuts
decorating where
other men would soon touch

as if he were wondering
the color of my eyes. (Blue or grey, maybe.)

Last time I checked blood was blue until it hits the air
Monkey see
Monkey do
I'm just a lonesome primate like you
Spinning on a pebble at the edge of a forgotten galaxy

One day father taught me to make a fire
Blowing air into the spark
Oxide

One day my father taught me where the throttle was
And I tore up the dirt road that led to the house

One day my father taught me where the trigger was


He beat the fire out of me
Until it raged a flame so fearsome no man could stop it

When I was born he let them cut a piece of my **** off
And branded me a first born son

He thanked me like a mother finding
her lost child, could not even kiss me back he felt so
relieved. I did not want to be
the one to ask if he remembered how it felt
for us to become distant and alone, even together
because I knew now
an idea he had about fidelity. He said he believed he
could be faithful to both of us in our special,
different ways. Neither existed in
writing as more than “she” or “her” or “mine”
but now he cannot kiss me. He liked it better when I
was a sculpture he was familiar with every
arch of, he liked it better when
I was in his left pocket and she was there in the right.
He thanked me because he is so happy he
still has something to empty out
of his jeans before the wash. This is a feeling of
release, not solid enough for me to let go of his hand.

i don't speak science and
i don't speak God.
i wish i spoke either,
i wish i spoke both.

i want to connect the freckles
on your faceneckshoulderschestarmslegsback
because maybe then i'll know
what love looks like.