The first boy I loved dove into it
From a Boston bridge to embody a poem
written too young
an idealist, Van Gogh-obsessed
Wednesday before Thanksgiving.
Moons ago, organizer of ocean tides.
And you, sister, new friend of too many years
sank beneath its surface to escape
pain you’d tried to escape many, many times before
leaving pain in those who tried to keep you afloat, and
those who didn’t know you were no longer reaching out
or skimming the surface or treading, but sinking
fervent fingertips out of reach.