Somewhere in New York State is a boy with sunflowers for hands. Or there isn’t, but I thought there might be. There are at least twelve ways to make a myth out of a man but there’s only one good way to tend to something after you plant it. I expected you to know this. You had such a knack for making things grow in me. Somewhere in New York State is a girl drowning in a metaphor or thinking about a crosswalk or trying to figure out the difference between a partner and a muse; and she’s coming up empty-handed because you can’t look her in the face anymore. Aren’t you supposed to be able to wave before you cross the street to avoid me? What is every poem about if not this? You needed to love something other than yourself to feel alive and it wasn’t me. So you’re human. So you’re more boy than myth and all the flowers are left wilting. I named something in my garden after you and it died. I put your name in this poem and it ended.
— IN WHICH JORDAN POREMSKI IS JUST A BOY by Trista Mateer