of a boy who'd been in her high school class. He stood between the peaches & the avocados running his nit-fingers over their unripe skins, a song tumbling from his not-mouth like spring water.
He was singing about the time he'd kissed a boy who wore daises in his hair, how the boy's body was soft, & how that night he dreamed about the taste of sunlight again & again, how he wanted nothing more than to feel just one drop of sunlight on his bones.
But of course he couldn't feel his bones anymore, & you beautiful, frazzled mother has her cellphone in one hand & your baby brother's cheek in the other. It was almost dinner-time, which meant you'd be home from middle school soccer practice soon, a mess of dark hair, October sweat, & grass stains. She wanted to feed you so she had to keep going. Even so,
as she hurried down the milk aisle, she could still hear him singing. she thought of the ghost, how his father beat him, of the Judas bruises on his neck which meant he died believing he wasn't enough, though he was, though he was beautiful.
Your mother, still listening to the ghost/boy as she rang up the groceries thought about you & your boyfriend, how she's sworn when you came out as bi that she'd love you so fiercely that the stars would be terrified of the light in her, & the light in you, the hope.
The boy was singing in the raspberries as she & your brother crossed the threshold out (He was my bright, he was my river—) & she turned back, for a moment, to watch the way his fingers traced plastic boxes like they were searching for warmth.
She thought of you, & the bread in her cart, & how gentle your smile was whenever you spoke of him. She looked at the boy in the raspberries & whispered, Come with me, as she walked out into the evening light.
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