It was night & you stepped out into traffic.
In the mouth of darkness, your cryptic figure
was even thinner, I guess, since the last time

I saw you. We were at a family reunion.
You were spun & flitting like a black fly,
talking talking. I knew you were high, but

said only easy things. We sat, just us,
at a picnic table, BBQ chicken on paper plates.
You talked about your baby-daddy diplomatically.

Your skin pocked & worn raw, jaw tense—
a drug addict. There’s no sense saying it
different. Now, you’re gone. I reach back to

that time on our front stoop when I begged
you to give me my 1st cigarette. I was 9.
& you, at 13, insisted that I never smoke

again. I didn’t listen. Years later, when
Uncle Lou died, you drove me to the wake—
21 & pregnant & smoking. I told you to quit.

shut the fuck up, you laughed, death already grating
your throat. Lolo, all these moments
are wet cobwebs on my hands now, I can’t

pick them off piece by piece. Your skull split
open on the curb, the cops said. Like a tomato
overripe in August, remember my mom’s small garden 

how we’d eat them still hot & dirty & deep red,
the juice running down our chins, bathing-
suits, you giggling & reaching out to pet my face,
pick off the sweet seeds & put them on your tongue.