He will be walking to the store,
or back from it, or to his
father’s house from somewhere
with his hands full,
always with his hands full.

He will be talking to a girl
on the phone, smiling at
the song of her laugh
with his mouth open.
always with his mouth open.

He will be full of today:
the sheets, the faucet,
the cereal, the lessons,
the kiss, the boys who
give themselves new names.

He will be thinking of now,
only now. Always right now.

He will not expect what happens,
but he will not have any time
to be surprised.

He will cry, maybe. He will
cry out for his mother, maybe,
or the girl, maybe, who—
on the other end of the call—
will hear him become an altar

against a streetlight, a t-shirt,
a church of rage and grief
gathered in a park or a street
with their hands up.

Always with their hands up.

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