His messages were often subtle.
He’d hide vinyl copies of Blind Melon
beneath our painkillers like Easter eggs.
He’d blast “No Rain”
like a siren while flying
down the interstate
and I pretended to sleep
with my earbuds in and forehead flattened
white against the frost-black window.
Tonight the hard clouds hiss, and 8-bit snakes
hang from the neon cedar branches.
I play his vinyl like an obituary
to the fetal birds that will ascend
and sew him to the waxing moonlight.