To the coroner who did not have to draw my blood

sixteen years ago, and centrifuge
the alkaline hydrocarbons from my blood,
contributing to the Ada County records
another fact concerning how much gasoline
is too much for the teen-aged male
to ingest, who did not have to split
me open, to remove what remained
of the liver, or to cut the lung tissue
to recover the amount of fluid that bled
through the membrane, who did not have
to decide between suffocation or poisoning,
all the while I was pounding the door
of God’s speakeasy, having arrived without
the password for the two eyes that hid
behind the door slit and that rolled oh
brother when I guessed "Rimbaud’s three-legged
cat," and the eyes’ voice said, "Get lost,
kid," so I left thinking what a piss-ant
job for an angel, coming back to the world,
my parents’ garage, puking something blue
and thin onto the pavement, I give my thanks
to you, as I know you would have been
tender for this late adolescent, whose torso
had just lengthened to man-size, whose
hands were strengthening, whose skin
stretched young and fluid, for you
would have whispered, "Goddamn it,"
with the incision, remembering your own
son, or yourself, and I give you
thanks, for I may be the one you
blessed when you once cursed over
that old man’s drink, a manhattan, "If there
would be one suicide who didn’t come
my way," and I tell you now it was me
who didn’t come your way, cold, blue,
youthful, rotted, who today rose
with his beloved from the Modoc Lava Caves,
whose bearings were lost in the desert
afternoon light haloing silver off
automobiles and asphalt and ash.

*next*