My father engineers cameras so strong that they can
fly into the darkest parts of space and photograph
the light that hides there, he crafts metal eyes that see
beauty in the wreckage of a supernova.
My mother drinks wine from mason jars, fills them up
to the brim and drinks until the bottle is empty and
the jars lay broken on the kitchen floor, she drinks to fill
the hole in her chest where the love has leaked out.
My brother studies the very particles that combined
to form the flesh that clings to these riddled bones, he
uses instruments so fast that they tear them apart
at the very seams and bleed stardust.
And I write poems about you.
And I lay awake in bed listening to the memory of you
leaving, trying to find the courage to open my eyes
and accept the fact that you are gone.
And I fuck a different boy each night, trying to pound
you out of my fault lines, trying to drown your memory so
that in the morning it is nothing but a shipwreck.
And I write poems about you;
about the way your velvet voice lingers in my mind,
drifts across the phone line, lulls me to sleep, both
comforts and haunts me.