MY MOTHER USED TO SAY,
I know you’re young,
gotta get it out,
but just remember, when
you’re walking in the nighttime,
make sure the nighttime
ain’t walking into you.
But Shawn
probably had his
headphones on.
Tupac or Biggie.
SO USUALLY
I ended up going to bed
at night, curled up
on my side of the room,
eventually falling asleep staring
at the half-empty bottles of cologne
on top of Shawn’s dresser.
And the jacked-up middle drawer.
Alone.
BUT I NEVER TOUCHED NOTHING
because it’s no fun
hiding from headlocks
half the night,
which is why I never touched nothing
of his
no more.
IT USED TO BE DIFFERENT.
When I was twelve and he was sixteen
we would talk trash till one of us passed out.
He would tell me about girls, and I would
tell him about pretend girls, who he
pretended were real, too, just to make me
feel good. He would tell me stories about
how the best rappers ever were Biggie and
Tupac, but I always wondered if that was
just because they were dead. People always
love people more when they’re dead.
AND WHEN I WAS THIRTEEN
Shawn welcomed me into teenage life
with a spritz of his almost-grown cologne,
said my girlfriend—
my first girlfriend—
would like it.
But she hated it
so I broke up with her,
because
to me
her nose was
funny acting.
SHAWN THOUGHT THAT
was stupid
and funny
but worthy
of joking me,
calling me
William.
Worthy
of a headlock
that felt like
a hug.
NOW THE COLOGNE
will never drop
lower in the bottles.
And I’ll never go to sleep again
believing
that touching them
or anything of his
will lead to an arm
around my neck.
But it feels like an arm
around my neck,
wrenching,
just thinking about how
I’ll never go to sleep again
believing him or
believing he
will eventually
come home, because
he won’t, and now I guess
I should love him more,
like he’s my favorite,
which is hard to do
because he was my only
brother, and
already my favorite.
SUDDENLY
our room
seemed
lopsided.
Cut in half.
Half empty.
Half cold.
Half curious
about that
one drawer
in the middle
of it all.
THE MIDDLE DRAWER CALLED TO ME,
its awkward off-centeredness
a sign that what was in it could
and should be used to
set things straight.
I yanked and pulled and
snatched and tugged at
the drawer until it opened
just more than an inch.
Just wide enough for my
fifteen-year-old fingers to
slither in and touch
cold steel.
NICKNAME
A cannon.
A strap.
A piece.
A biscuit.
A burner.
A heater.
A chopper.
A gat.
A hammer.
A tool
for RULE No. 3.
WHICH BRINGS ME TO CARLSON RIGGS
He was known around
here for being as loud as
police sirens but as
soft as his first name.
PEOPLE SAID RIGGS
talked so much trash because
he was short, but I think it was
because his mom made him take
gymnastics when he was a kid, and
when you wear tights and know how
to do cartwheels it might be a good idea
to also know how to defend yourself.
Or at least talk like you can.
RIGGS AND SHAWN WERE SO-CALLED FRIENDS, BUT
the best thing he ever did for Shawn
was teach him how to do a Penny Drop.
The worst thing he ever did for Shawn
was shoot him.
A PENNY DROP
is when you hang
upside down on
a monkey bar
and swing
back and forth,
harder and harder,
until just the right
moment, when you
release your legs
and go flying through
the air, hopefully
landing on your feet.
It’s all about timing.
If you let your
legs go too early,
you’ll land on
your face. If you
let your legs go
too late, you’ll land
flat on your back.
So you have to
time it perfectly
to get it right.
Shawn taught me
how to time it perfectly.
If you could do a
Penny Drop or a
backflip (no cartwheels)
you were the king.
Shawn could do
both so he was the
king around here to
me and Tony and
all our friends.
But he made sure
I was the prince.
In case you ain’t know.
REASONS I THOUGHT (KNEW) RIGGS KILLED SHAWN
NO. 1: TURF
Riggs moved to a
different part of the hood
where the Dark Suns
hang and bang and be wild.
He wanted to join so he
wouldn’t be looked at like
all bark no more,
and instead could have
a backbone built for him
by the bite of his block boys
who wait for anyone to cross
the line into their territory,
which happens to be nine
blocks from our building,
and in the same neighborhood
as the corner store
that sells that special soap
my mother sent Shawn
out to get for her the
day before yesterday.
NO. 1.1: SURVIVAL TACTICS (made plain)
Get
down
with
some
body
or
get
beat
down
by
some
body.
NO. 2: CRIME SHOWS
I grew up watching crime
shows with my mother.
Always knew who the killer
was way before the cops.
It’s like a gift. Anagrams,
and solving murder cases.
NO. 3: . . .
Had to be.
I HAD NEVER HELD A GUN.
Never even
touched one.
Heavier than
I expected,
like holding
a newborn
except I
knew the
cry would