Herbert W. Gleason, [Wildflowers], early 20th century
Gelatin silver print, 19.6 × 11.8 cm
Image Courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program
It’s okay to be sad about the death of a boy
you haven’t talked to since you were ten.
It’s okay to dream of him as he never was:
a man. To want to thank him for the card
he left at your door all those winters ago—
your name in all caps, heart drawn around
it. It’s okay you still don’t know why
you saved it, why when you think of him,
you think of blue, how one day, everything
will be blue—a feeling instead of a thing,
soft open space where a sharp, technicolor
memory had once been. And it’s okay
not to think of your father now, to shut him
out of this poem because it’s just too hard.
Besides, you’ve got other scabs to pick
until you’re nothing but split skin, red-raw.
Let’s start with your body—its white blood
cells like tiny ghosts swarming your glands,
feeding on breath & tears. It’s okay to call it
a broken thing, to hate living in this broke-
down place, to wash dishes with the knowledge
that less breath will come before last breath,
that your throat will turn to desert—all rock-
earth & bare. Not even your wildflower
words will grow there.