How many times will
I write about the night
you taught me to drive
in the snow?
Your pale hands in the dark air–
my own on the navy wheel,
like it was a big ship pulling to port,
our mission so clear–
to get home.
The way you laughed like the sky
on a summer day.
Long pieces of your golden hair
still haunted me as time passed on
and you were every boy
until you turned around.
The doubt fills me,
tumbles around my throat,
pulsing red veins against
all my organs as I lose track of dates.
Your mother grays and her eyes are still
as blue as the ones you closed.
How many morre times will
I write about when
you taught me to laugh
like the sky?