The Undiscovered Country

an elegy for a childhood friend

Photo by Devin Avery on Unsplash

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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.