you gave me your sweater
you’re leaving
the house on rock avenue
I slept on the roof
clinging to the shell of a home
drenched in memories
of four generations
I see the guilt in your eyes
for making us leave it behind
but you have no choice
your skin is dotted with purple
eating you from the inside out
cancer feeds on you like a plague
and agent orange fills your lungs
you gasp for air
I miss the stars on the ceiling
of my childhood bedroom
I miss your garden
I miss the rocking chair in the basement
I miss you