for eric

when i finally closed my mouth, i let sean
into the house, and into my room,
and left the blinds closed to the perfect
day. he sat on my rocking chair,
in the gloaming now, staring
at the floor. i don't know where else to go,
he said. i can't go home.

i let the sentence enter
my head: you are gone. i couldn't help
but think of your death scene: quiet now,
bloody, your frown reflected
in the pool . i don't know who pulled
the trigger, which part of your head felt
separated from the rest of your body,
but now we can never have that talk.

i told sean to talk. he made
me miss you even more than i thought
i would: you, the go-to man, the sweet
man that filled a safe part of a life still
being defined. death changed her words
all over again, because even when i thought
i knew, i didn't. everything gets muddy
when it gets closer to you.

sean rocked back and forth on that chair,
telling his stories, the ones
that could never belong to me.
he was never taught how to tell, but it wasn't
that he didn't know, he'd merely forgotten,
and you made him remember.

you are walking in my dreams sometimes, three
years later, when my brain dumps
doubts about fate and i forget
just how many people are watching.

and sometimes, i am standing at Red Rock, the wall
made of dried copper blood,
and i imagine your ashes as snow on a desert
floor, if a joshua tree will grow
in your image someday: arms reaching,
head raised, the sky receiving your stories.

sean was quiet, then. all he could do was absorb
your silence. he rocked quietly in the chair, tired.
maybe you'd been watching us
from the air vent, trying
to scream, but the air was still.