We were on the jetty eating orange popsicles
and staring out at the glittering afternoon sea
I was eight years old the first time you ever uttered the word

cancer

it wasn’t a just a sickness anymore
it was definite
it was terminal
something permanent

I was eight years old the last time I held your hand
as we walked back to the car

I haven’t been back to Maine since
or on a jetty even though I’ve always loved them

I was eight when I went to church and prayed for you the entire service
little knobby knees kneeled on the velvet

I was eight when you died

I was eight when I told god to go **** himself
and ever since then I’ve had a hard time with belief

I’ve had a hard time being in a church without feeling angry
I was eight when you were buried
and it still feels like it happened just yesterday