For R.

Some of us aren’t lucky enough
to get a second chance. Once
we fall that’s it. I came across 
a shoebox full of old pictures 
the other day – remember when I 
wore shoes? Remember those 
black-and-yellow disposable 
cameras from the drugstore? Oh, 
how homesick I am for them now.
You were in many of those
pictures. Your face many 
different shapes. Angular – you 
hadn’t eaten that day, that week,
probably. Puffy and red? Water
retention. Your eyelashes a darker 
and more sinister gold. I wish I could
remember the way they felt on
my skin. I wish we’d had more
time. Sixteen, seventeen, twenty-
one years isn’t enough and in twenty-
one years they’ll still be saying your
name, oh she died much too young,
oh what a shame and maybe it
is a shame, the fact that you are gone,
but right now all I can think of is
how much of a shame it is that
we never got to visit New Brunswick
together like I promised. Plane tickets
are expensive and the pickerel
will glide no matter who is
watching them or from where,

golden among the hooks,

green among the weakfish.