Dear Molly

Speak out loud. Yell
at the people around you; yell
at the open air.
Tell everyone
how you feel hate
for your solid skin, hard boned limbs.
How you hurt
when you think of his body
tangled in the dashboard;
how you find yourself
crying
when you’re alone.

Tell them how you can feel
the hair on the back of your neck rise
and how you crack your knuckles
when eyes that sink into wrinkled faces
sympathize.

Be embarrassed
For those who can not
Express the pain.
Be unimpressed with those
Who do not attend
The final farewell
and sit among the photos
of fifteen years at deer camp in Dorset
at the church where you watch
a mother clutch and stain
her sons football jersey with tears.
Be ecstatic
When you see the faces
Of those who do.

Do not shy away
From car rides
To smoke joints,
To go to Burr and Burton for class,
To go to dinner.

Do not restrict
Yourself
From thinking of his body
Between the seat and the dashboard;
Of his sister
Still breathing
Next to him.

Restrict yourself
From not considering
Your own young body
In that car;
From those adult eyes
On someone else’s
Breathing, hunting, woodworking
Body.
And restrict yourself
From the windshield
With your seatbelt.