Dog

I'm hiding from the stars tonight. I've pulled
every blind and turned off
all the lights but one, which I've named after you,
which I can see flooding the dark
hallway of my high school when I open the locker
with your name on it, the only one
left, the universe flashing out
onto the floor. I thought maybe I would find
a note from you
and that's why I dreamt about it. In all the pictures
I've seen of my older brother
he is never wearing a tuxedo. But I have one, bent at the edges,
of me and my twin on a boat, on prom night, happy,
already a little drunk. I carry this picture whenever I fly
so I can look at it right before the crash, below the screams
and the smell of urine, I can look into his eyes
and know who I am. All night I've been worrying
about money and cancer and the tooth
I have to get pulled out before it poisons me. I can smell
the lemon I cut earlier for the carrots and fish. I don't know
what to do with myself. I've written the word Freedom
on a piece of paper and taped it to a knife. Then I peeled it off
and taped it to a book of Myakovsky
poems. Finally I took it and stuck it on the screen
of my computer where there is a picture of Erika wearing the silver
necklace I bought her. Outside a dog is sitting in the yard
looking up at the porch. Every once in a while
it wags its tail and whines, then it's quiet, and then it begins to growl.