At first, the grief was bare, an unsheathed sword,
its presence sharp. But then it turned, slowly,
into a faded tattoo on a hidden part of my body.
I tried calling your phone last night.
I don’t know what I expected, but I was scared.

When I’m dripping in too much darkness,
that same profound, welling of sadness finds me.
It appears in the strangest places; in the back
of my throat, at the roots of my heart. These moments
are punctuated by the smell of oolong tea, memories

of getting drunk off Blue Wave Vodka at Brian’s house, hiding
from the cops in your car. But you’re gone, you’ll never read this.
When I found out, I ate an edible and laid on my couch for 20 hours,
trying to wrap my mind around it, but it was just you,
swallowing lemon seeds, presenting your empty mouth,

tongue drawn out toward me, the pride you had in that moment,
the laughs that filled our empty stomachs, the crows feet on your
face when you smiled, like footprints in the snow.

– Layla Lenhardt

Author’s Note: “Mammo” is about the recent death of one of my childhood best friends, Steve Mammarella, fondly known as “Mammo.” I find myself thinking of him constantly. While the initial weight of his loss no longer bogs me down, it has never fully left. I still feel the sting of his absence in the most mundane aspects of my life.

Note: This poem was previously published by Antarctica Journal in August 2019.