Sometimes you dangle 
the puck, pull it 
back, and a tank-
shouldered giant 
with a hooked stick
pins his eyes 
like a boutonniere 
on a prom lapel
and plants his gloves
in your sternum.

After the doctor 
scans, poisons 
and scans, and one 
of many tumors 
in your brain doesn’t 
shrink like the others 
but grows stubborn
as a crocus in snow
he cuts open 
your frontal lobe.

I write your eulogy 
in my head, see 
myself in front 
of a crowd, see 
the obituary’s flat 
font in the paper, 
put my left hand 
on your youngest’s arm.
I count you gone. 
I’m not proud. 

And you, more than 
a lesson I learned
about breathing 
next to a droplet 
on a leaf, more than 
a decoy for me,
are my blood most 
like unlike me
and still you teach 
as you once taught

Try to get past me
that each morning
a defenseman stands
with his stick waiting 
to see how you
will try to entice him—
force, will, quickness, 
simple pleas—
back into his cage. 
A six-year long 

game, and counting. 
The defenseman waits
whether we 
see him or not
and each day now
I watch how you
keep your head
on a swivel, wait
for the pass, then
find an extra gear. 

Gibson Fay-LeBlanc’s first collection of poems, Death of a Ventriloquist, won the Vassar Miller Prize and was featured by Poets & Writers as one of a dozen debut collections to watch. His second book, Deke Dangle Dive, is forthcoming from CavanKerry Press in 2021. Gibson’s poems have appeared in magazines including Guernica, The New Republic, Tin House, jubilat, FIELD, and The Literary Review, and his articles and stories have appeared in magazines including Kenyon Review, Portland Magazine, SLICE. He currently serves as executive director of the Maine Writers & Publishers Alliance and lives in Portland with his family.