In Memory of Blaine

the jackal and coyote and starve eyed owl
wet footed on the bank of our preserved town.
the moon rises silently and full,
a crease left where pressure once was.

i think of this boy, he was nineteen. my god.
my oldest son also nineteen, his friend
beautiful boy, dark long lashes, dark tousled hair.
now we know-

what do we know, again?
this boy, he was nineteen. 
his older brothers, they died in a drunk driving crash.
now we know he- 

what do we know, again?
this boy, he was nineteen
made himself beholden to those two losses,
curled up tight in the crash debris.

the stars penetrate, bright stabs of pain
his mother, his father. his mother, his father.
their mother, their father. their mother, their father.
let us rest in what we know, with only those words.

let us rest with them for a moment.
do they have to be so alone?
they had seven boy children, now they have four.
what do we know, again?

four children left with their brothers cells.
do those cells pull forever to be together,
is that the bond of family?
is it some kind of electronic tug-

this boy, he was nineteen.
he said goodnight to his brothers, and took his life.
took his life
where did he take it?

my son pulled his phone from his pocket,
shaking and sweating and crying.
look, this is what we were saying to each other,
he told us.

these are the things we told each other.
we answered him evenly as if his life depended on it-
love is the only thing that you could do
and you did.

love is the only thing to do now-
here it is.

i love you.
i send messages to people i've never met.
i tell them i am so sorry. i say i love you.
what do we know, again?

i tell them i love them.
they sit on the trembling edges of this town
with their children tucked to the wing.
coyotes and jackals and owls flutter 

wet beaked and sharp toothed.
i wish i could take them to my heart 
and feed them like baby birds.
this boy, he was nineteen.