after David Allen Evans

Every time I smell that tropical cologne,
vanilla, coconut, and citrus of oranges,
that you used to splash on when you got out of the steamy shower,
right in-between the crook of your defined neck
and your strong, but gentle jawline,
it is that summer, the one you decided to throw that bash for my sweet 18,
at your parents’ vacation house
in the Bahamas,
with the smooth, cool stone,
and the flair of a Mexican villa.
Your father,
with his broad shoulders and steely frame,
is bending over the new grill
in the Eden that was the backyard,
at 3 p.m. on a hazy, lazy afternoon
and your mother,
all hazelnut hair and matching eyes,
beautiful outright but fortified with iron,
is laughing loudly, her melodic amusement playing like a movie soundtrack,
as she watches him jump around,
patting out a fiery ember on the outdated shorts he wears once a year.
And you -
always the perfect older sibling to look up to,
You’re chasing Zak around,
Your smaller clone only with brown eyes instead of those crystal blues,
and his friends join in,
skating up and down around the sandy shore on their short little legs,
And I -
I am basking in the sun’s glow, admiring the view, and I mean the landscape and you, and
savoring this perfect moment, trying to drink in every detail before it’s back to the mother
who just wants you gone, the cigarette smoke and booze, a far cry from the picturesque
scene where all you can smell is that exotic, tropical cologne wafting over, mixing in
with the thick, gritty charcoal and salty waves