texas roadhouse 

this is how i like to remember you
even though you are not dead.
it was between lunch & dinner
& we were the only ones 
in the texas roadhouse off old 222.
we are far from texas 
in our pennsylvania weeds. 
an uncle & his nephews: me & my brother.
our server's name was "paisley"
& that prompted you to teach me
what the pattern looked like.
you drew it on a napkin & i thought,
"centipede wedding." we ate ribs.
you are not dead but now you stand
in the driveway with a flag in your mouth. 
i haven't talked to you 
in years. sometimes when i visit home
you are still eating those ribs. 
wiping the barbeque sauce on a nice shirt.
it looks like old blood. we ordered
a chocolate lava cake to share
between the three of us. you still call me
my old name. in those moments 
we trade places. i am the undead one. 
truthfully i'm not sure who is dead anymore.
the hot chocolate poured from
a wound in the cake. i licked my fingers.
you laughed. my brother used his fork
to plunder the whipped cream.
everything was easy & none of us had
to have a gender. in the dark you watch
your horror videos. all the tongues
like ribs. a paisley pattern knit across
the screen. i don't know how or why
you changed or if you always wanted
to be this angry. i don't eat meat anymore.
the texas roadhouse is closed & replaced
with a raising canes. my blood turns 
to lava when i see you. i look for a wound.
pouring out on a white plate. not enough time. 
let's not pretend anymore. let's be dead
or not. tell me, do you remember 
that afternoon too? will you come 
& draw me paisley on a brown napkin again?
i just want something to keep.