When my uncle Tim was eighteen
he drew a picture of his house for me,
not too many months before
he shot himself in the heart.
His note asked his mother
to please remember to the feed the cats.
It had been less than a year
since he drove a car until he was lost,
until the flat Texas land
seemed to run into his head,
until someone asked his name
and he finally didn’t know.
It is the same, trying to lose yourself,
trying not to lose yourself.

                                                       He knew
that he was the only one leaving;
that the sun would still hurt in the summer,
and the river by his home would swallow
another boy’s youth and keep running.
I think of the land in Texas,
brown and sparse and endless—
heat wrapping around me
so tight, I almost felt safe.

—Wensday Carlton

from Fear of Summer