Tattoo
Half the congregation went down
to the river after church to look
for Eddie’s body. I parked
among other cars lining the road
to the bridge and strolled out
with my brothers to gawk
at the broken railing,
the police boats dredging below.
We were hot in our suits,
and when I saw the wind
lifting spring dresses,
playing with lace-edged slips,
it struck me that Eddie
was looking up those dresses,
laughing at the good citizens in
Sunday best who bowed their heads
in search of him and his motorcycle.
It didn’t matter to Eddie
that people were saying
the accident served him right.
He didn’t care that they were
shaking their heads
about his oily duck’s ass haircut
and leather jacket, about the red
heart pierced by a blue arrow
that twitched on his biceps
when he curled the big weights
at the YMCA.
He could lift
two hundred pounds, and when
the attendant punched a kid
for running in the locker room,
Eddie shoved the man against a wall
and told him to pick on somebody
his own size. We shot pool
together that day and smoked
cigarettes, and I never again
believed the rumors about Eddie
except the one I wanted to,
and still want to—
that he had slept with a woman.
Eddie stayed under water
for almost three weeks;
he only drifted ashore when
people started to forget him.
