Megalodon

For Khaled and Connor

Me and Ben spend the first semester sending 

letters. It takes three weeks for him to get 

mine, so I keep them short and meaningless– 

except the one time I sent the poem

which took me an entire year to write. 

Come winter, we sit in his car. Ben convinces me 

to try the lychee soda with the glass marble. The floral

sweetness grows on me. My hair’s out for the first time 

in three years and he’s normal about it. We’ve been here 

before, this parking lot. He’s seen me before, this hair. 

Ben’s lover passes away and

here’s what he remembers:

a half loaf of bread, 

two cans of Redbull,

the long drive back from Arizona.

A Thanksgiving funeral where the parents say 

it’s nice that he had such good friends.

My uncle passes away and 

here’s what I am told:

The week before, his neck muscles gave out.

He said people are coming, so bring the bread.

At two in the morning, even the mosque was closed.

Like the dried dandelion above the glove compartment, 

his body laid there for hours, unmoving.