Tell all the stories of his life, string them
like polished stones on sinew, touch them

one by one. Touch white jade,
for the time he rode his motorcycle over the bridge

and asked if you’d kissed another man. His face
in the porch light. Touch coal for the man in the last photo,

staring into the indifferent camera of his future. And a quartet
of amber, for the way he held on to a child crossing the street,

a sheet of music. The meat of your thigh in the car,
in the bed. A finger bone, for the doctor’s office,

fear bowing his shoulders inward. And for the boy –
who ran out of the surf to lie beside you,

tracks of salt drying on his skin – for him
a scarab, eroded and unreadable.



Gail C DiMaggio