I start with a memory: October, visiting

my sister in New York, driving

through upstate at night where

the woodbox houses along the hill road

are lit up at their windows. Slumped

in my passenger seat you are

one black hoodie away from complete

invisibility. I hold the memory

in my open palm and with my other

hand, pluck out all the extra: the dying

trees, the moon, sky, houses, until

only you and I remain. We are

in the car and it’s dark. I attach

a lightbulb the size of a pinky nail

to the memory, I can see now

the lines on your face

that I couldn’t before, the worry

gathering beneath your eyes. In

the silence, I squeeze the hill

into a sphere so we can drive

around and around

until I finally build the courage

to ask why you’re going to do it.

Fear splits the memory in half

before you can answer—the car ripping

at the seam between us, falling away

from each other, hill road

flattened beneath my palm

into a North Carolina parking lot

three months later. Half-dimmed

streetlights shine on the concrete

foundation of a mall that was once

the largest for 100 miles: the day after

you relapse for the first time.

I watch you ride your skateboard

like a stiff body across the makeshift

skate park. Even in this world

your small clay form carries

the weight of your body to come, cracks

forming in the crooks of your arm, knees,

toes. After a fall, you laugh, pull

yourself to your feet and give me

a thumbs up. The cracks spread.

I want to save you. And I could here—

pull you back together with a pinch,

unpin last night’s needle

from your vein and crush it

to dirt, smooth over the scar

tissue just now beginning to form,

all it would take is a drop of water

and the right amount of force. But I know

now what I didn’t then. I have to learn

how to let you fall apart.