I've spent the better part of the last month
trying to reconstruct our last night --
the last time that the five of us were together.
I want to box up the sound of our laughter
so loud that it was probably keeping my parents awake.

I want to tie it up with a bow
and keep it in my nightstand
for when the nights get longer and the songs get slower
and I can't remember how much taller you are than me anymore.

Three years ago, I called my brother while the four of you were together.
The phone was passed from ear to ear until it got to you.
Without missing a beat, you hung up on me...
and didn't answer when I called back.

I remember thinking that
I didn't know it was possible
for somebody to make you mad in a good way.

I spent my last night in Tennessee at your house.
We ate dinner in your front yard
so that the cars could watch us
as they drove by.

You said,
you're rarely as burned out
as you think you are.

Last night I counted the states between here and Montana,
thinking back to that night
I wished away everything in the April sky
so that you could shine the brightest.

On Sunday mornings they’d grab us by the shoulders
and stare into our eyes until
we repeated those universal truths —
what goes up much come down,
He was conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit,
even Satan knows
that he’s out there.

here’s
what they don’t tell you in sunday school.
no matter if you make it to heaven or hell,
you could still be sitting next to the school shooter
depending on whether or not he prays
to the right god.

my father always said
that if he meets jesus, he’ll apologize.
“sorry
man, I didn’t know. if it’s any consolation,
I believe in you now.”

two weeks ago
a friend grabbed my steering wheel
and she turned me into the next lane.
she believes in god
more than she believes in saying sorry.

we always tell each other
that the murderers are going to hell.
is this wishful thinking?
or are we just incapable of thinking
that we’re going to share our heavenly space
with somebody who stole lives.

even if I didn’t know it then,
these thoughts
might just be the reason
that I used to get panic attacks
when I thought about heaven.
I’ve always been a restless soul
and being stuck somewhere forever
was never
my style.

This could be your final lap around the Sorry board.
The moment when the German man chokes you on the Acela Express.
Skin kisses skin
crossing cheeks, pecking noses.
Before your vision blackens,
you see the blurring of blues and greens:
Live action bruising for the eggshell queen.

This is the part where life cracks open.
The final lap around the Sorry board,
the moment where a German man
chokes you on the Subway.
Your throat closes but your heart opens up
and there are bees in there.
General Mills was wondering where they went.

Skin kisses skin
crossing cheeks, pecking noses.
The breadth between ‘be my shadow’ and ‘enough for now.’

Blow out the candles if you’re listening God,
we need a little flicker here.

Some people say that Vincent van Gogh used to eat yellow paint
in order to make himself happy.
Others say that he was shot accidentally
by two teenage boys.
So maybe he didn’t need that yellow paint after all.

The scholars and the experts say that
these things aren’t true.
Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Maybe van Gogh liked the color yellow because he was
on a prescription that made him see the world
through yellow glasses
every time he opened his eyes.
Maybe van Gogh liked yellow because
it was everything he wasn’t.

Maybe van Gogh just liked yellow.