April Fox

He told me when he's gone
he wants me to read Fern Hill
out loud
at the end, before they lower him
into the ground
In my own voice, somehow
shaped so much by his that I'm surprised sometimes 
that mine lacks the depth
and the timbre of his.

I think about the nightmares he told me about
when I was young
Staring at his own face
in the mirror
Just before he lost his head.

I see him as a child, small and blond
like I was
Bright and lost
like I was
Sitting under a tree
like I was
On the farm, chasing barn cats and growing old
Chasing silence. 

I see him on the hill, dappled sunlight through the trees, racing down, 
grass brushing against his long brown arms
He must have tumbled at least once
like I did
when he took me there. 

I see him ahead of me, dark leaves scattered at his feet
trees like towers overhead
showing me
his home. 

I see him old, some distant ghost of a boy so far removed
he'll never be and I could lie down now
and disappear
into myself, into the earth
Alone and unafraid,
convinced of the beautifully silent void, the voices still and the grasping hands cut off, and yet

The thought of reading Fern Hill chills my bones 
and rips my heart.