in memory of Bill Venable
I am the worst curator of your memory.
Each year, I find a little less survived
the ride with me, your puzzle
down another piece, your shrapnel
bagged-up by police, scraps I try to stitch
or glue until the day I cannot put you back,
a basketball dribbling in the cul-de-sac,
your posters faded from the wall,
the headfirst pitch of ambulance call.
I never know if I’m supposed to play
the surgeon or the archivist to hem
your edges in, but either way, my gloves
still leave a stain. Each year, you mark
my thirteenth day, the toll collector
on my springtime expressway. I give
my sticky quarters, touch you, glove
on glove, before driving on toward days
which you will never see, stuck as you are,
working the tollbooth of eternity.
*This poem is written in memory of Bill Venable who was killed in a home invasion on January 13th, 2004. Since then, his brother Eddie has become an advocate for reform and has written a moving piece about the personal toll that gun violence has taken on his life.
