Though I have closed myself

When your brother’s kids woke up

On easter Sunday and they thought they had

The run of the house—watched from above

By proud momom in a nightgown

--When they played the abc’s

On an instrument they did not understand and we could hear

Them banging and singing gleefully upstairs as your father

Yawned with a camera in his hands--

When I woke in your highschool bed

to see the sun warming your skin

The soft fold of your head into your neck into your shoulder,

and your eyes, so blue about to suddenly open—

when your father said “I don’t believe in heaven,”

and I thought I sure as hell believe in good places.

when you put me inside you in the shower,

Arched your back and opened your mouth as you looked back at me

but we couldn’t come because we had to get ready for church--

When I saw your brother in all black,

Stepping in the door after a cigarette,

Weary haired and hot, and avvy shouted “uncle nick”

And stumbled over with arms open,

literally fell into his arms that

Were mysteriously, even to him, cast open.

When the day grew hotter and we went to your grandmom’s church,

Pointed out all the tattoos we could see

And smiled at the pastor, our coconspirator

When we thought of all the ways we feel about how he rose,

When you leaned your head on mine and curled your arm through mine

And our hands didn't quite line up so your fingers traced my veins

When we carried tulips in full bloom in each arm

Passing the ones who had raised their arms in praise

When I turned you down on the bed with the windows

Open on your green lawn, spread you out like a map

And plotted what was mine along you with my lips—

When the family descended

and we couldn’t find each other

on the carpets or wood floors

and I saw you in a blue dress

making the doctors laugh and talking

about retirement

when we were dragging tables together to eat

and you caught my eye and we went very quiet

and let the conversation hide us—

When you said you were proud of me in front of your whole family

Even your grandpa who watches fox news religiously—

When we found a place at st pete’s village in the sun

And lay out on a big rock with only the sound of running water and each other—

When we came home together to west Philadelphia

In the lazy almost summer streets,

with the men out on porches smoking

And calling out to women, and we

lay together with the windows thrown open

and I wore blue jeans and you ran your fingers

across my chest and through the kisses

I began writing this poem as you,

and you never fall asleep, fell asleep