Three small holes

           -in memory of J.L.

You have three small holes: one for when you sat wide eyed in the night (the musty garage was your refuge) and you glued together shreds of glass until they became an image – the face of a mother you never had; one for the constellation you kept recording over and over on journal pages, waiting for a star to die, or be born; one for the people you left behind to claim your dreams in cardboard boxes.

No, nothing is permanent, but you.

You become like a stain nobody else can see, but those who too are stains.

He carries you on his conscience and it’s heavy the way rain is heavy after months of drought.

They need you, but the way birds need their chicks after they have been taught to fly or the way divers still need the sea even in their sleep.

You were sunlight landing in through dirty windows that would never open. I hate that I can’t cry for you anymore. Just wear your temporary name on my chest and scream and tear old notebooks of childish dreams and try to break through the door but never quite succeed.

I hope there are no quadratic equations in heaven; just soft backed chairs and bears like you.