Rhian Gallagher

It's Hard for Them to Talk about Things

One makes five-year plans, the other reads plans
and makes houses. One has the people knack
as if there were no strangers in the world
but only potential friends; the other
places firm bets; sometimes the horse comes in
and he say's it's life when it doesn't.

Two weeks after the funeral
as if drawing the wagons
around what was left of the family
their idea of together
was to buck a raft down a river
riding the five-grade rapids
in the mourning garb of black wetsuits.

These are the boys that I grew up with,
men that I love and can never translate.
It's hard for them to talk about things;
they'll never come clean with their tears
but given the chance they'll burn them away
in a snow fed current and pretending it's play
unload their chests with a scream.