We’d lift gin from your mother’s cabinet  
and walk the hallways of Robert Asp Middle  
taking swigs in plain sight from a 20 oz  
Pepsi Clear, your gap tooth flashing  
at teachers we passed, your hands forgetting  
to pass the bottle, screwing and unscrewing  
the cap. After that I moved. We lost track.  
The news was six months old by the time  
I heard. When they don’t say what happened  
you know what happened. We used to catch  
rides from highschoolers out to the Red to jump  
the bridge. Water thick with clay. Red with clay.  
We kept close watch for underwater logs.  
Smoked Menthols. A 40-foot drop into swirls  
of currents. One time you stayed under  
and kicked downstream to trick me. Nervous,  
I stared at the surface for signs. No signs.  
I stumbled down the bank to dive in.  
The moment you were certain you had me  
the valley cracked with your laughter.

^{for my mother}

This one moment I loved: you
in the air, permed hair flying
wild in the rain, around and through
and not a thought of us dying

in the air, permed hair flying
against the storm, lashing hot rain
and not a thought of us dying,
strapped in the plastic car, chained

against the storm lashing hot rain
on our faces as we’re hurled up,
strapped in the plastic car, chain
clouds glowing, whirling—the gust

on our faces as we’re hurled up,
launched into the electric
clouds glowing whirling, the gust
as you laughed and laughed. It’s

launched into the electric,
wild in the rain, around and through
as you laughed and laughed—it’s
this one moment I loved you.