I just spoke at your funeral…
could have/should have/would have
(wishes were fishes & beggars would ride)
done better
but when I got to the podium my hands started to
shakeshakeshakeshake in perfect 4/4
with my voice
& my mind
went to static…
just like every time I try to think about you
& everything focuses down to a pinhole
like looking at the sun
& all there was
(in that weirdly sanitized room with its
flawless, lifeless, perfumed flowers
that made my stomach clench and bile rise up
& GODDAMMIT
& Reverends stories of
shepards and Jackson Pollock
& this happy-ending version of death)
were your sisters,
sobbing & holding each other
& they were so beautiful
& so hurt
& everything was so, so wrong…
you're dead
& we're here
because of you and what you did
& they forgave you,
your sisters
but I don’t
think they have a choice
& that’s when I cried
finally
the cracks of that dam
GOD DAMMIT
radiating out from my desperate fingers
thumbs
& I can’t believe how much I miss you
& I keep having these dreams
about you
& your mother
& I haven’t had dreams like these
since Stevie P. hanged himself
in that Juneau bathroom
& is that because I feel like I/we failed
you like him?
There’s nothing to be done to undo the past
& this linear time line marches on ever forward…
I just wish we could have gone on together longer.
I’m so sorry, Thom & I love you.