Good Friday, 1981

On Good Friday my parents wake
me to say
Michael has passed away,
we’re both around 11 —
something I can’t pronounce or spell
that came from a mosquito bite
with blood taken from a sick
horse that made his brain swell up.

He had brown eyes, a mole and
many brothers and sisters:
I ate dinner at his house once,
and we liked collecting stamps.

At school the teacher cleans out his desk
and for the rest of the year
no one sits there,
it’s just an empty desk and
a chair in the middle
of the room.

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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12 Responses to Good Friday, 1981

  1. Holy mother of God. I always knew you had it in you but there’s your proof.


  2. I’m left wondering about the desk. Would it be better if the teacher moved it out of class? Another good reason for me to stick with high school.


    • pinklightsabre says:

      Yeah, stick with high school – I’m sure it has its own set of peculiarities like this, though, or even harder to imagine.


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