In six days, a year after
people died in pairs, you finished
the last three assignments

of your degree, and said goodbye
to the same “brother” twice. The night
after the first, you sat on the couch

with three of your best friends, making
lists of three words describing
each other until well past three

in the morning. Earlier that night,
your friend’s twenty-third
birthday cake was galaxy glazed,

with three white spots for Orion’s
Belt. The second goodbye is outside,
on Friday, raindrops sprinkling

your brother’s deadname onto
the pavement. Stigmata pain
cuts your side, leftover from

period cramps and Chinese food.
Your God dies at three
that afternoon, while you sleep

for three hours. On the Sunday,
you will rise and cry again.
You will see three brown birds.