Before we were
the Keeley Brothers
with a capital B?
Maybe when he was George Clooney
and I was Brad Pitt.
“So what do you want?”
I realize Krista’s talking to me.
“Huh?”
“What do you want?” she repeats.
“You brought us together
so you could talk to him.
What do you want him to know?”
Mickey braces himself,
hands squeezing his knees,
eyelids squeezing each other,
like he’s about to be sprayed
with poison.
After 233 days,
I have no eloquent speech,
no moving lyrics.
“Besides being alive again,
I want . . . more than anything . . .”
I wait while she translates,
then continue,
so she won’t have to stop
through this next part.
“I want you to know
that I love you, dude.
And no matter what you think,
it wasn’t your fault.