LOVE STORY

I was told I could turn my back to them,

the sickle-mouthed angels who rummage

through the church dumpsters looking

for wings or food. One is a friend, febrile

with addiction, drug-rot blackened teeth

freaked into blades from the sheath of his lips.

I was told he would occupy no space

in my memory, that he shouldn’t. Snow

falls like a mask in pieces over his face.

Rachel comes to the porch holding herself and asking for

my uncle. We say he gone to the store but he’s years dead.

She keeps holding on to herself like her body remembers

what her mind lost. When he get back, tell him he owe me $5.

We offer to pay. She says, No. Tell him.