After you died
I slept at a friend's house.
On top of her refigerator
was a big family-size bag
of corn chips. One serving
at the most was missing
and the top of the plastic
was rolled down
and secured with a big blue clip
that would have looked pretty
in the right girl's hair.
The chips were all
I could think about
when I tried to fall asleep. You died
of a heart attack, too young,
and told me you couldn't stop
eating once you opened a box
of cookies. You showed your empties
to supermarket cashiers
who smiled, embarrased,
then rang them up
as you looked away.
Maybe it was easier for you
to admit, your being a grown man.
I wasn't so honest.
I slithered out of bed, graceful
as a criminal. The bag on top
of the refigerator crinkled, louder
than floor boards. I froze,
took a step, froze, took a step-
fast food to my chest, everyone
else dreaming. I made it
to the bathroom
where I intended to take just a bite.
My chewing was a series of loud knocks
against my temples.
I turned on the faucet, a blast
of noise so I could shove more,
more quickly, into my mouth.
The tiles were cold under my feet.
My rear end stradled the side
of the tub. I sat there forever,
until I started to miss you again,
until I panicked about who would notice,
about what I would do with that empty bag.