That Nick’s death was so predictable, so straightforward, was no balm.
Something inside me was burnt up, was still burning,
A clutch of acrid cinders, my breath close like a dog’s.
I took Ben’s car upstate. 9A along the Hudson River
Unbearably bright. I saw Aaron Carter was playing
At The Chance and while I always preferred the brother
Why not, I had to go somewhere. I made many detours,
Exiting the highway in those dim, august towns
With steep main streets poised to spill into the river
Ornaments, eaves, and all, and when I made it to
Poughkeepsie discovered the show I saw on Facebook
Had already happened two years ago today. I got out and sat on the hood
In the Galleria parking lot. The evening light was draining away,
Lathering the sky furiously pink and silver, bronze then black.
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Adam Spiegelman is a writer based in NY. His work has appeared in or is forthcoming from The Indiana Review, The Evergreen Review, Grand Journal, Cake Zine, and more.