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.

Categories: Poetry

Tags: death, dream poetry, loss, Memoir, poem, Poetry