Years ago, when I was a boy and therefore safer,
I would visit Austin on his night-shift at the 7-11

and watch the zombies shuffle in for microwavable pie
or cigarettes. Mostly they just asked for stuff, any change

we might give them. Later, when Austin became one,
his eyes as hollow as the needle he carried everywhere,

he called himself Saint Sebastian. You know, that hot
naked guy in all the museums: barely dressed, arms tied

above his head, his body full of arrows. He writhes
in those paintings, every muscle alive and straining.

But Sebastian didn’t die from the punctures, he was healed
and then clubbed to death suddenly after. I think that

was Austin’s favorite part, being famous for something
you’ve healed from. The last time I saw him

he was black-out drunk at my birthday party, and ashed
in every one of the wine bottles, no matter how full.

He puked on the front and back porch. I had turned into
a girl by then and he never liked girls much.

I didn’t know how to handle him. I still miss him though.