Met him when he was sixteen,
knobby kneed with braces, doing DMT
in someone’s yard. A cigarette
hanging out of his back pocket.
Dropped out of school,
but he was a straight-A student once.
He was the kindest line cook
in that brick dust building.
Dropped fries for anyone
that asked, always with a smile.
Always passed the blunt to anyone
with a free hand.
A bucket of grease was kicked over
and he appeared with the mop,
well accustomed to cleaning up
someone else’s mess.
We found him drunk outside the gas station
doing kickflips on the pavement.
He looked impossibly small
and white in hysterical headlights.
Later that year, he announced
that his girl was pregnant
with that same boyish smile.
The first time he swaddled his tiny daughter,
he told us how he rolled her up like a joint,
that he knew
exactly what he was doing,
that he wasn’t even scared.
A halo of smoke hung around his head,
and I figure it lingered there
long after I left that place.
Madeira Miller is a Pushcart-nominated writer pursuing an MFA in creative writing and an MA in English at McNeese State University. Her work has appeared in several publications including Ponder Review, Barely South Review, and The International Human Rights Arts Magazine. She can be found online at www.instagram.com/madeiramiller.