for ML, Clearwater Beach, 1974

You were caught in a funny 
too much, the only one

who could make me laugh
until I couldn’t breathe. 

Years later I saw you in the dark
comedians, hilarity 

that soars but for being tethered 
to death. 


I knew you—or did I?— 
a puppet in croaky motion, 

knew you were too many 
voices, nattering 

in a single body, a girl
too quick 

for the fumbling boys 
with their simple 


strings. I writhed 
on my bedroom floor,

but you never let up
in killing it. Even then, 

you were more 
than me—a tan marauder,

jumping from higher 
branches. Once, I pitched 


a fleeting crabapple 
at a shadow in the street,

but you bombed handfuls
on every coming car. You

were barrage
and arson, crashing 

cages, springing the zoo. You 
were atomic, an agit 


of overload—freak of the not 
here, not now—

the only child 
of teachers I prayed never

to have. Every August, 
they visited my parents, 

their cicadan complaints
itchy, their pale hands


overwashed. We never 
visited them. Not even 

after the news. You 
overdid it, or they 

overcame you,
or the buzzard South 

picked you clean, a curio
from the co-ed roster. You 


were states away by then
and your parents 

had long quit 
their seasons. Nineteen years

you saved yourself
	with lightning 

asides, damming 
the bullet, every quip timed


for the punch: one blast 
on the beach 

where the moon
blued the white sand 

and laid a still bluer path 
to deep water—you 

florida, you riot, you 
weevil inside the joke. 


Afterwards, your parents said 
they always knew 

you were not quite 
right. Queer. Sick

of mind. A feast for the so 
so sorry. You, the child

who covered their souring 
with trips to every flower, you 


deserved a medal, at least
a witness, but I was only

a tourist from girl-world,
clutching 

my ticket, a dime 
	in my shoe.

Now the zoo
	is deserted,


the keepers have passed on
	and I am left

wandering
	your utter vacation—

another friendship
	altogether—

pawing the sand, 
	late to the bleed.