Jeremiah, Who Died of Hypothermia on New Year’s Eve
after Francine J. Harris
I’d curse his name; before, he was nameless,
that goddamn redneck with his fucking fireworks,
Jeremiah, who’d shoot fireworks any given day ending in y,
Roman Candles, ground-showers, golden sprays
putting small town municipal shows to shame.
That fuck by the lake with more money than sense, Jeremiah,
Imagine him at Pyro City, all smiles as I fed my 401k,
holding my dogs close and listening to the loons flee
across the bright night sky courtesy of Jeremiah,
not responsible, like me, Jeremiah, riding his four-wheeler
on thin ice, fifty-degrees, but hypothermia took him;
I’d watched the gray-glass ice on the lake all day,
the lake with its concentric blue hole 10 yards from shore.
Daybreak: my husband and I passed the binoculars between us,
watched the airboats circle and sweep with prodding hooks,
fragile as dread in my stomach as they pulled up Jeremiah,
dripping ice tentacles and a single yellow shoe, the other gone.
Jeremiah, 42, like me, both own day-glo shoes but never spoke
until the day I pressed my hot cheek to the window, made a
smear of foggy tears and muted apologies
Over 500 showed up at his spaghetti dinner benefit,
just for Jeremiah, neighbor of three years.
500, that’s 498 more than would show up for me,
forever caught up in my own world quiet, contained,
like a night without Jeremiah’s fireworks.