He cut his one year-old self out of each frame. Three, five, / shy of two, thirteen year-old selves, too. Then at 24, / out of the whole picture.

before his death; / she stands on these steps a middle child: / what holds her / who keeps her anchored in space to this place

We laugh until our fault lines split / our names into hyphens and we breath / the salt air of the Pacific like it is part of us. / Every mouth eats, every voice speaks, / every belly swells with second chances.

Locks. Flood gates. Skies. Mouths, / hungry for words. Lungs. Schools. / Casket creating a small world of rain.