We become each other, twenty-four
years and two thousand kilometers
apart. Hard to care about who begets whom
in a hot, Alabamian chapel, or a northern
Ontario church. Both of us, only-children,
the bunk beds of our memories summer
camp dank, listening to hot breath
above us. Foundling queers, small town
trapped, online love attempts left
our hearts unroofed, groped in parking
lots or ghosted on. If it’s such a Shit Town
then leave. Our stories split. I left
and came back, he stayed behind
with his mother, his maze. Roses
stippled his ancestors’ earth
in collapsing shadow. He built basements,
healed clocks, lived by sundial
motto. Inhaled so much mercury
his lungs were a daguerreotype, spilling
chemical sighs and bombastic,
accent-thick tirades. My only mercury
in my sun sign, but still. I know
how hard it is to live when your thoughts
are the opposite of copacetic. John
absquatulated earth in a cloud
of cyanide, insisting on treasure
that never was. Out in the woods
with a plastic bucket, gilding
the inside of his throat.