Thirteen

Thirteen
with thanks to David Eaglemen

It was “Our town”;
Death spoke for us.

Death came today:
It was playing on the radio.
You, across the country;
how happy
we’d each become.

On the radio,
A meditation on death,
wherein there are three deaths:
the first when we breathe our last,
the second when we’re buried,
and the third when our name is spoken
for the last time.

I didn’t put it together until just now:
You were the first--
fourteen was built
on your fragile bones,
that brittle foundation.

I never said love.
I didn’t know that word yet.
I had no words,
until you gave them to me.

Our town.
We shared a single lollipop,
on Madison,
between your school and mine.

There were four of us:
Patrick would give me
my first cigarette later.
And when his mother found out,
blame it on me.

And another girl, a blonde.
I can’t remember her name.
I’ve lost so many names.
She liked me, wanted to kiss me,
Patrick would tell me, later, too late.

She would have been my first kiss.
The wrong one had the crush, and I never bothered to ask.

We shared a lollipop;
it’s all I remember.
I passed it to you,
swollen red orb
in the afternoon sun.
You told me, “No,
do it like this,”
licked around it,
drew your teeth
over the curved surface,
following your lips.
“So you don’t leave any spit on it.”
It was the closest we came.
I remember that day;
I remember your name.

Fourteen lived in fear,
for eleven years,
that if I died,
in some far off place,
she couldn’t bear it,
it would have been murder.
But thirteen had already slain.

It was our town,
and somewhere,
still is.

Your gave me the words.
I remember you:
I remember your name.

Charles Imbelli 2010