PERSON Poem: Jasper, by Willa Umansky

The last time I saw Jasper was probably a year ago,
walking down Smith street. Maybe two years.
Supreme windbreaker and joint in hand, smoldering
with sixteen year old city kid swag.

I hated Jasper, my best friend.
Every weekend that belonged to Dad belonged
to Jasper too. On some phone somewhere
there are videos of us performing in a living room,
bedecked in Nina bangles and belts.

There’s a life out there, where Nina and Dad didn’t break up.
Maybe there’s even one where it wouldn’t
have driven them both insane.
Nights could have been wooden,
bricked and dimly lit.
Countertops surrounded with

Jasper, Jasper,
Jasper. It’s an empty word now,
in an epigraph for a life that isn’t mine,
I hate you, I’m glad we’re friends,
I hate you, we’re family.

Promises are memories and memories are
broken. He was younger, six to twelve. Maybe
the bloody noses and torn out hairs mean nothing to him. Maybe
he thinks of me as a recurring dream he had as a kid, a familiar face
that requires a wave walking down Smith street.