Matthew Dickman
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I’m sitting beneath the live
oak, wishing the plane blinking above me
was a satellite that would shoot images
of Darin back down into my brain so I could print them out
and paste them on the wall. I have to
keep looking at this one picture of him
to remember how his jaw was and on which side of the moon
he parted his hair. My older brother
always away from me now, some animal or constellation
that walked out of the world but for rumors
and half skeletons found in the Congo, drawings
of what they might have looked like. My brain dreams
about cities from outer space, a place like Kilimanjaro where he
might still be walking around in his Vision
Street Wear high-tops, or even a shadow like my father
who talked about Costco the night of his cremation and how
pumpkiny the pumpkin pie was
though he bought it in a frozen pack of twenty. Just like a real bakery,
he said, you just throw it in the oven,
he kept saying that, you just throw it in the oven, you just throw it in the oven.

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