A Patient’s Family Asks What Do I Know

In the ICU, my friend washed another friend’s
face with the serum and cream samples

they hoarded from Sephora. She sloped
and shaped his eyebrows like calligraphy.

The nurses envied his stainless skin,
saintly, like he hadn’t made a perfect O

on an imaginary dick to teach me
about efficient blowjobs. When I die

I know my friends will be dragged
up in sequins and blush, will cut cake

with their contour. But I know death
has always picked my more beautiful

loves over me. What a lucky bastard, to burn
a candle in wild fire. To make breath

into moan and song. How we learned
hunger and feast from our own fabulous

bodies. I don’t know much of anything.
I don’t think as much as do, as much

as want and miss and admire. I hope
you have love letters for my friends.

I wouldn’t blame you. Those handsome
boys. But I’d say find another messenger

because when I see my boys, my girls,
I will kiss them, and perform nothing

else, forever, for so long we will be reborn
as trees joined at the trunks, a set of summer

winds over sweaty sunbathing hunks, a handful
of hard candies melted into rainbow.