On the Recent Death of My Brother’s Favorite Artist JARED BRUNNER, MY ’22
“Memento mori.” I’ve known your voice all my life, but the first time I heard you speak we were driving beneath the sunrise, freshly released from our sleep, barely yet alive. After two long winters spent rushing towards the wrong train-line in bitter city winds, I expected your voice to have frozen over, gone empty and numb; through life and its trials, we simply didn’t talk, but now, with your subwoofers buzzing and the engine singing a dirge, a backwards piano-chord loops itself erratically in a cosmic sonic collage on those crinkly Civic speakers, you spoke as we do, and let a couple words loose, while I tapped my hands on the dash and listened: You never mix more than a few colors when you prepare your palette— a touch of red, you said, is louder than the rest, so twenty-six years well-led should crowd out the death.
VOICES