kara goughnour

"FOR MARK BAUMER"

After one-hundred days of walking,
you are killed on impact at thirty-three
by a reckless driver on inauguration day.
In the last photo you post, your feet,
two gnarled, scab-white things,
front a neon arrow painted on asphalt,
pointed ahead,
the word killed scrawled before it.
In the last video you post, you swear
a burning oil drum would be better equipped
for presidency. You say, Come at me.
Julie and I say we don’t believe
in gods or resurrection
or any blindly hopeful thing,
but on the phone, I say, Maybe
Jesus was a half-homeless man
who walked barefoot across America
and maybe we blew it down here.
I watch a video of you
as the first snow of this season falls
and someone asks me
if I think you’re still walking
and I don’t think that
but say yes because I want it.
You are the road,
the black glass of pavement,
shining cyan lamplight —
I will write you poems
that sound like doorbells dinging
if you promise to follow them home.