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Tyler

reached out to me, Robbie.

I want to rhyme

May with say,

like,

“Tyler was prone to say

everything hurts

and I’m not fine

especially in May.”

That’s the stiltedness

I like, Robbie.

-

yard work and dried blood

have made Tyler’s fingers brown.

I never wanted to kiss them,

but

I do.

-

Tyler has leather seats

black against the white paint,

that Jeep his dad paid.

Tyler smells like pot

and neon cologne,

maybe from a Belk’s sale.

-

Tyler says

I want to drive off the road.

And, Robbie, I’ve written this

a few times before,

but

it’s true

and I think that

matters, maybe.

In silence,

he lights a joint,

takes his shirt off,

asks if he can take a shower,

and I tell him

there’s nothing

to be afraid of.

-

When he gets married, Robbie,

I’ll give a speech

about his back

and how

I never deserved him.

-

Some of my memories

live in church bells

brown mice

and pink dresses,

but Tyler tells me he

wants to drive off the road

and Robbie, what it was like

for someone to

recite my scripture

only to be cast out