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.