Death has always had a prominent place in my mind. . . . I’ve come close at least fifty times.
Dennis Rodman

All we want is to never die, but God loves most
the man who offers what he cherishes.

In ‘93 they found you asleep in your car
with a loaded rifle in your lap.

You said you killed a part of yourself that night,
you could tongue its absence like a missing tooth.

The only cure for sorrow:
more sorrow.

On the court you were all hunger,
filling the spaces no one could fill.

You called yourself the basketball version
of a gravedigger.

So often, it seemed:
digging holes, jumping out.

I miss seeing you in action, following
the stars in your hair across the hardwood.

I met you once at a Bulls/Bucks game, called you
Mr. Rodman. You said, Call me Dennis.

Dennis, the world of box scores has continued without
you but there are so many kinds of love.

I imagine your evenings are easier now without all of us
tweeping your name.

I hope you’ve found a happy boring life filled with chamomile,
melatonin, and slow nights laying over themselves

even while the wild moon still hangs loose in the sky
like a ball you could leap for again and again.