For B.S.

On my birthday in May,
I read you died.

A year before.

Upon impact.

The report read.

Car crash. 2AM.

Head-on collision.
A girl named Amanda was driving you both.
On the wrong side of a North Dakota trucking highway.

She survived.

You died.

Upon impact.
I read it again.

The last I heard, you had returned to Los Angeles.
Living hard and fast.
Loved up with a Chola fashion designer —
her lipliner and big hoop earrings.
You added a teardrop tattoo to your face.
One of the last places
where skin still showed.

I recall you from that euphoric week
we had with Blanquita.

“How do I look?”
“Take my picture”
”You’re like a drug, do you know that?”
“The best in the West”, you said.

Blue ink stains covered you
from tip to top.
The long scar carved into your face
was the closest thing to a dimple.

We’d talk suicide bombs in Jerusalem
Chomping Thai food on the Ave.
Between the lines.
Running street lights.

Ariel Sharon on NewsHour.

We spoke here and there
Frenetic.
Spin the dreidel.

Between the schnitzel, was the tahdig
You’d tell me about Mahroo.
How your birth mother was a hippie in Hawai’i
She wore a roach clip in her hair.
You spoke so fondly of Maui.

The rabbi’s daughter
Sex between the Judaic texts in her father's study.
You were paranoid that
everyone was staring at you in shul.

The girl in Joburg with AIDS and her crate of books.

How you had slipped into Karachi life
Beard and all.

The girl in Ankara.
The bad sex.
And her hususi pasaport.
That got her into everything.

That got you into everything.

A congregation of sweaty bodies.
Floating in half-memory, I look at the clock.
Sleepless blur. Clock ticking.
”How many days do you think I can stay up?”
Wild eyes. Alive. White lines.
You finally fell asleep in my bed.

I remember the picture
from your last day of Tzahal.
Last day of olive green and combat boots.
The girl with the sunflower.
Leaning forward, smiling wide.
Dark strands shaken loose from her bun.
A goodbye.

The comedown came.
Hard and fast.

And my Protectors rushed in.

You didn’t know

I kept wood planks in my window jams.

There was no way back in.

I disappeared.
Clean.
Like a professional.
I was good at that.

Not even a sound.

We never spoke again.

I remember my heart racing.
Disappearing acts.
I had to kill it before it grew.

Your broken life was so easy to piece together.
Flashes of despair.
The boy who never grew up.

Fragile.

Days and years
Spent at the edge of cliffs.
Looking over.
Testing fate.
High speed down the PCH.

Always running.

From something, someone.
Yourself.
Turn into someone new.

It was your way to always be free.

You died on a May night, I read.

Head-on collision.

You died upon impact.

You were 40.

By Asli Omur