My childhood friend died
only five minutes before
I rushed into his hospital
room. I kissed his still-
warm forehead & apologized
to him for being late.
I'd taken a wrong turn
& got trapped in construction
traffic. I apologized
to his mother & cousins
for my mistake, my delay.
They said it was okay.
But it wasn't okay.
Not to me, at least.
Regret is a monster.
Shame is a beast.
I apologized again
& again to his mother
& I didn't go to his
funeral. I didn't go.
As an adult,
I've skipped most
of the funerals
that I should've attended.
In this poem,
I could've pretended
that I'm diligent with
my grief. But I'm
not, I'm not. When
it comes to grief, I'm
as sloppy as fuck.
Does that make me
a bad person?
Does that mean
that I'm weak?
Maybe.
Maybe.
But these questions
certainly remind me
of the therapist who
told me that self-loathing
can be another form
of narcissism.
Is that true?
Could that be true?
I only know for sure
that dozens of Indian
ghosts are already
perched on my ribs
& I only have space
for a few more.
Yes, when it comes
to death, we Indians
are forced to keep
score. But I tried,
I tried to properly
honor my childhood
friend. I did write
& send a poem about him
that they read aloud
during his wake—
a poem with one
punchline that made
the mournful Indians
laugh. What mixed
drink is better
than laughter & sorrow?
But I don't recall the joke
& I can't find the poem
in my files. I wonder
if those words
died immediately after
they were read.
Maybe every eulogy
should be buried
with the eulogized.
I think that I think
of my lost friend
less often than I should.
I want to be a good man.
I want to be good.
And maybe I am
mostly good
but I also know
this poem makes me
appear better
than I am. A poem
pins a corsage
on the poet.
A surprising rhyme
provides plenty
of camouflage for what
remains busted
and untrustable
about the poet—
about me, about me.
Thirteen years after
my childhood friend's death,
his name & info remain
in my phone's contact list.
I assume that his number
was long ago given
to a stranger. Sometimes,
I think about calling
that number & confessing
to whomever answers.
I'd say, Please let me explain.
I knew my friend was in
the hospital. I knew
that he was terminal
but I didn't know
how near
that he was to death—
to the fall. I heard
my phone ring
but I didn't check the message
for another hour.
And, yes, I immediately drove
toward the hospital after
hearing that message
but I turned right at the light
when I should've turned left
& I passed up a few open
parking spots in the hospital
garage because I didn't
think that I was skilled enough
to make my car fit.
But, yes, I hurried.
I promise that I hurried
to my friend's deathbed.
I swear that I rushed
to say goodbye
to a good man.
But I didn't run.
I didn't run.
I didn't run.
I didn't run.
Why didn't I run?
Damn, damn, damn.
Why didn't I run?
Damn, damn, damn.
Regret is kerosene.
Shame is flame.
So burn this poem.
Burn this paper.
Burn this ink.
Burn the sage.
Burn the drum.
Burn my wrists.
Burn my thumbs.
Burn the cedar.
Burn the flute
in tribute
to the Indian boy
who's buried
on the West End
of the reservation
that he & I call
& called
& called
& call home.
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"self-loathing can be another form
of narcissism." Oh man, I feel this. Beautiful poem.
"Regret is a monster.
Shame is a beast."
OOOOF.
Achingly beautiful poem, SA.