Archive: Poem for Tease

My friend Jeff died of an overdose in 2005.

Looking back, I guess I can see how the oxys might have pulled him in: he was always all tense, crackling nerves, fidgeting, feet tapping, shifting around the room, ready to go somewhere else at a moment's notice,

driving with his arms wrapped around the steering wheel leaning forward forward forward

like if he could lean through the glass to get to where he was going faster he would.

Even his smile seemed to flutter across his face when it came.

He only ever seemed to be still when he was drawing or painting,

the movement of his hand across the page or wall or canvas creating the most beautiful, graceful curling looping letters

while stilling the rest of his usually restless body.

For a few years after he died, I had these dreams about him.

He'd come visit me, just to hang out and chat and catch up, everyday stuff,

and I'd be trying to remember why I hadn't seen him in so long.

Then, at the end of the dream, we'd say our goodbyes and he'd say, "I'll call you"

and I'd say, "No, you won't."

He'd give me a rueful little smile and I'd say, "You can't,"

remembering why at the same moment the words were leaving my mouth: "You're dead."

And memory is funny, the things we remember and the things we forget.

Because I won't always remember the little things, like that Jeff is dead,

but I'll never forget the big things,

like how the ink would coil out onto the page when he drew

as the stillness would coil out into his body.