The Last Thing I Taught The Dead Kid Poem by Timothy Geiger

He appears
as a ghost
in the blue suit I wore
my first Communion.
Always his desperate need
to be bad.

He shimmers
not fades. 'I'm hungry.'
he says, 'I'm you
but I'm dead.
Tell another story
about me.'

And then
the little dance,
head down,
shoulders swaying,
spinning a slow wheel
into my past.

He's moving now
and I'll be up
all night. He's got
the stolen matchbook,
and the wad of cash
my mother was saving

for the family bus-trip
to my sister's wedding-
we all end up
in separate cars.
He wants to know
if it'll burn and when.

He's off and kicking
the dim boy
down the block,
calling him 'dickhead.'
He's six and makes
the boy eat dirt.

Now he's looking
for a rock:
to bust a car window
on the interstate below,
just to hear
something bigger shatter;

to split the skull
of the swan,
tie the duffel bag shut
on the kittens
and sink it like Atlantis
into the creek;

to whistle
at the crying girl:
no, he doesn't know,
hasn't seen
whatever
she's looking for.

And it does no good
to tell him to keep
his hands in his pockets,
sit-down, behave.
He's not going to keep it
to himself.

He'll dance
like a broken marionette
until I pick up the pen,
and take him out
into the traffic
for tender introductions.

It never matters.
The last thing I say
is the next little dance
I can't leave behind.
I have to kill him
all over again.