For Joseph After Seventeen Years
  Emily Izsak

They closed the Molou
but Bernstein's is still selling lingerie from 1965.

Remember when we picked up pill bugs,
pet their exoskeletons,
and named them after the sound of bread clumps
hitting lake water?

Roly-poly baby,
what a sharp dresser
you turned out to be.

Never mind the goat blood
on your rainbow coat —
Judah and I made goulash
last Tuesday.

Watch for potholes
when you skateboard
down Fred Jones Road.
Let’s never split up, gang,
even when the gravel path
branches and
frosts over.

We’re squinting at hieroglyphics —
a scarab hints at the mystery
of the missing mushroom cut.

Now you stand taller
but toddlers still reverse the obstruents
in your name.

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