There was a nickname that you shared, but now I guess that it’s yours, watching your old man’s bones get carried outta St Paul’s doors. Reconvene at the arena where he taught you to skate; we stood awkwardly, uncertain if we could be afraid. Knowing the situation needed your most serious face, arms folded over a weakling chest, thinking on nature and grace. You’re slipping in and out of adult pose, trying to earn that broken body like your father’s. To exalt and to mourn our one-day-twisted frames even as the kids we were kept slipping away. But looking down at the ice we all refused to cry. A pain we chose to hide. It seemed important at the time but I swear it goes away when we die: angry and alone and dignified.