I tell them,
I am not writing about the men
you see unless it’s
dead dad
dead brother.

wearing his  knit NY Giants cap
everywhere and
holding in a feeling,
then stoned and stripped,
replaying the final moment:
hand held, eye contact,
the knowing I had and decision
to forgo a flowery speech.
the last thing my father and I ever
said to each other was
I love you

before I left,
palms on the linoleum,
sobs held,
one more Christmas.

  1. (love)

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