Mark died on Monday
so he probably won’t read this
because I don’t know if he still exists.
Rachael showed me a picture
of you but I’m six years old
at the Monroe, Wisconsin Pizza Hut
coloring a slice of pizza
in the kid menu – purple cheese,
blue pepperoni –
you’re not here. Mom is talking to
Brian like you never existed.
I have a son now. His name is
Atticus, like in that book.
He’s got crooked teeth, dirty toes,
no object permanence.
When he falls asleep
I wonder if I still exist.
I’m writing him a fairy tale
so I need a Big Bad Wolf – and
the preacher kissed your wife
on Good Friday while his boys were at school,
and they didn’t exist.
Now we don’t talk anymore because
you don’t exist
and I don’t know if you ever did.