Allegra Wilson

Together we were eating dim sum on my dad’s dime, playing the Bach double,

eating ice cream and watching Desperate Housewives, questioning our sexualities.

Our birthdays days apart. I never worried about you, not one single time.

The week you died the full moon haunted San Francisco, it was never so big, a giant

looking over the edge of the earth. The halls of the hospital filled and emptied, filled again.

They played music, read poems, danced with fire. We got your messages;

the shooting star, the overflowing water. You called me in Reno to ask if a violin’s bridge

could snap and break the box, dressed in stripes and before you grew your mustache.

I dreamed of cleaning your violin strings. I don’t remember exactly when you got taller than me,

your chin on my head when we hugged. I would have taken notes.

A decade later, it’s simple to cauterize a heart so it beats the right way, stays pink

and red and lively as your cheeks. I lost the pink pearl necklace you brought me from Japan,

each pearl shaped like a tiny pebble, a small pink planet.

You always were borrowing the book I wanted to borrow. My mother buying you morningstar

farms corn dogs and pine nuts so you would come to her house and never be hungry.

Your mom and dad believing every word you said.

We made mushroom pinatas and it felt good to have something to hit, hard, with a stick.

I played Vivaldi, our parents danced with each other. Now if I had seen you growing thinner

I would know to feed you bone broth, roasted sweet potatoes and cauliflower with olive oil,

pasta carbonara rich with egg and parmesan. Together we would sip the whiskey I learned

to drink in your name.

Every year I still say to you that you’ve ruined Christmas.