by Rachel Javellana
It didn’t help that
he had a port wine stain—
a birthmark like a drink
that had been thrown
in his face—which became
the way he was identified
when his name wasn’t
recognized, or immediately after
like a surname, shyly spoken
now that he was dead,
after being absent
less than a week, total,
diagnosis and induced coma
included. His spinal fluid,
infected, had betrayed him;
we murmured rumors
of fingertips and toes gone black
for lack of blood. He was
an asshole, one senior said,
shrugging. It’s true, like he was telling us
something we didn’t already know.
