There is a man here, present
in subtraction,
in the whispers of airplane
wreckage,
the coils of Alaskan frost—and
in the spark
of his son’s sad eyes, who’s
space is filled
with a painful chorus of your father
would be so proud.
Every Pride drives deeper, edging
those sad eyes somewhere
else,
sealing flush the gap
that should be filled with the
squint
of his eyes—the bounce of
his laughter—
the pressed white shirt
ruined red with wine—
Pride
steals the place of everything:
his crackling skin—his quiet
musk—
the weight of his hand
warming my shoulder.
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