At This age

The sun rose and we were
polished as apples—
me on the back of Frank’s motorcycle—
we were sixteen
when he ran it into the Ford
pickup and died.
The Junior class had no words
for grief, wept,
but were appalled
by his mother’s face,
red and swollen.
We were tuned then
only to WKOL
and to our own heartbeats
which we knew
would go on forever
death being as far from us
as some dim galaxy.
But this week
when my friend called
to tell me her sister was dying,
that sorrow was visible
without a telescope.