For My Friend Who Is Going Away

 

 

Where I’m from we face loss

like a cut cord, like a bait car.

 

We were born for brooding,

for the grudge of hustle.

 

We live to run the traitors

out of town.

 

And you are not without your own buoys—

false floors, love potions;

 

the kind of girl who’d slam a locker door

on her finger

just so another girl will hug her,

 

so another girl will hold her bike helmet

when she inevitably starts to bleed.

 

Which is to say that some girls

are born bruised and some girls

do the bruising;

 

some girls are so good

their yearbook pictures

go viral;

 

and we are only not those girls,

because dial up, because 1997,

 

because girl I could get you across

the whole damn Oregon Trail,

pack up the cows and ford the river,

 

but I could not fit our faces in a selfie

if the homecoming queen showed me how.

 

What I’m trying to tell you

is I’ve told tons of girls,

 

“If you’re going, then get going.”

 

Told them to meet me behind the post office,

bring their shin guards and elbow pads

though mostly I didn’t show up when I said I would,

though mostly I told my mom I had a cold.

 

What I’m trying to tell you is

I’ve told plenty of girls,

“Goodbye, good riddance,”

But only once have I said, “Hey,

if you’re thinking of leaving,

can I see the pictures of where you’re going?”

 

Only once have I said, “Hey,

can I sit with you for as long

as you decide to stay?”