the priest got up there with his
“everyone dies”
like he was reading from a menu.
he didn’t know my brother.
didn’t know the fire in him.
the way he made you laugh
when life kicked your teeth in.
didn’t know the sound of his voice,
the jokes,
the wreckage,
the truth.
just another body
on the schedule.
people showed up
reciting things they’d heard
but never lived.
“he’s in a better place.”
“god has a plan.”
“all things work together…”
a trap door
out of the moment
I waited for someone to say
something real
just nods and hugs
like they were late for brunch.
they wore their faith like makeup,
not too much, just enough
to keep the grief from showing.
maybe that’s the trick—
learn to talk like god is a therapist
and cry behind closed doors.
but me?
I run.
I run past factories with dark windows
and shipping docks
and dumpsters full of broken things
and I think of my dad
and I think of my brother
and I think
about the vacuums left behind
