This is for the 5’10” dark-
skinned black boy
who had a smile so wide that his molars shone
like high beams. Blessed
with slightly above average intelligence and a heart too big for
his chest, open
casket sharp, his silent tongue
no longer stirring. An insignificant speck of dirt
in the cosmos, much beloved by God.
His Song of the Son cut
through the air, a silver bell turned
heat-seeking missile, child
of wrath gone holy. He was
ugly, broken, shamelessly flawed, and deserving
of affection. But aren’t we all? The sunflowers
grew towards him, plants blossoming in rooms
absent of light, indigo baby boy.
Seppuku soldier, a kamikaze kid, the ashes
in his mouth could turn to gold
when needed, he never needed, he always wanted
to give,
even if it meant his last exhale. Adored
by his mother, treasured
by his father, the fourth
of his name, may he rest in pieces.