American dreams laid out to rows
of hardy bushes dividing green chemlawns;
all the familiar dogs have died.
the school bus came around this turn pregnant with
hopeful repeating future.
he became a schoolteacher,
she from the big red house went to Nashville,
friend in the brick ranch overdosed.
I remember the priest said "o death, where is your sting"
looking at his mother and nodding promise.
he asked us to remember the seal of baptism,
a flag draped over the casket.

around where I pulled into her driveway on a motorcycle,
the pine trees where I smoked my first cigarette.
he always sped up the old subaru around this turn.
I remember the family names,
Italian and Irish syllables to the beat of my sneakers.
I remember the insecure affection, the angry fathers,
the teenagers driving way too fast down the hill.
I remember soft breasts, pressing and unfaithful.
this is a graveyard of friendships.

I do not remember the sunshine ever being this bright!
or the air as thick and pulsing.
some gardens look exactly the same
as they did twenty years ago.
only I am different,
a transient voice resurrecting shadows.