You shouted “Jew Boy!”
and slap shot the dark puck.
It missed my head,
ricocheted off a locker instead.
Stick erect in hand
you waited for my reaction,
a reason to kick my butt
and perform for your teammates —
but fear locked my lips shut.
Seven years later
we stand among the mourners:
you beside the gaping hole, a bodyguard
with dark glasses and crossed arms,
red carnation growing from your clenched fist.
You say nothing, as if you never hated me.
Seven years earlier, graduation day
we celebrated seeing each other for the last time,
before we could know our friend’s car would slam into a tree
and reunite us before the dead
and me wondering: can you respect the living?