Maybe it’s just as well you never see this world

1.
Construction projects take
longer than planned.

Sometimes tall boys shoot
other tall boys in the back
of the head — the papers
mistake these dead for
“an unidentified man.”

We drive ungodly speeds
on too much blacktop —
anything for convenience!
— we ignore metal-crushed
bone and split skulls.

2.
My mother has kitchen scars
down her hands and arms
though oven mitts were
long-ago invented.

Maybe I would’ve broken you
like she broke dinner plates
without a care for wounded
wood floors.

3.
The night we learn things aren’t going right:
I spoon a pho alive with noodles and spice
distracting tears with restaurant T.V.s.
Your father nurses a refrigerated beer
in the dark womb of our living room.

Later, his brother sits on our couch
his sister on a stool. We listen
to a sad country song few have heard
and talk about our tall boy, shot dead
in the head four months ago in September.

4.
When I see moonlight
reflecting on water, I’ll think of you
somewhere beyond the deep.

I’m not sure if you were slipped
your soul yet, but if there is a God
appeal to her motherness: Tell her
I’m trying, but it’s getting harder
to keep my knees from shaking.

Tell her I need a sign, something
other than blood, something solid
something impossible
as you.

A version of this poem first appeared in riverrun vol. 47.