as if heaven itself
is bawling,
spitting,
pissing
on my brother
and his death wish.
You go, God.
If he doesn’t want his life,
can I have it?
I’d be a miserable,
pretentious
son of a bitch
if it meant living again.
I’d be him.
“Keep most of the lights off,”
Krista tells Mickey
as we enter our cousins’
beachfront condo,
where our family has stayed
since I was fourteen.
“That way I can still see Logan.”
“I’ll get you a towel.
And do you want a dry—”
He looks away
from her sodden T-shirt.
He has a girlfriend,
after all,
a girlfriend he’s barely touched
in 233 days.
He heads down the hall,