Addy Lugo is a finalist in the 2025 DC Poet Project, an annual open-to-all poetry competition created by Day Eight to support and surface exceptional poets.
 

The Smithsonian archive has pictures of Matthew Shepard’s teeth

I wish that Matthew Shepard was a HR Manager living in San Diego.
I wish he woke up with a hangover from too much white wine.
I wish he cut himself shaving.
I wish he kissed his partner goodbye, noticing their coffee breath.
I wish that a bird shit on his windshield.
I wish that he got to his office late enough to get side eye from his boss.
I wish that he would find spinach stuck in his teeth—embarrassed that no one told him.
I wish that someone would steal his soda from the fridge.
I wish that someone could back into his car by accident and leave a note that just says “sorry.”
I wish that he could sigh when he answers a call from his mother and father—
That he could tell them white lies about his weekend—
Yes, he was taking care of his yard and yes, he was going to visit soon.
I wish that he’d get to happy hour six minutes late—
That he’d pay full price for two gin and tonics.
I wish his partner would ask “what do you want to do about dinner?”
And the weight of the day would hit him like a train—
He had almost forgotten he was hungry.
I wish that he would tip the delivery man even though he forgot their side of fries.
I wish his cheeseburger was cold and had pickles when he asked for “no pickles.”
I wish he’d feel guilty for forgetting to call his best friend this week,
That he’d crumple up a grocery list from last week, and use the next page of his notebook
To write himself a reminder: “Get Michele a birthday gift.”
I wish that he could bring his hand up to his jaw in pain and dread going to the dentist.
I wish that his favorite picture of the Duomo fell off his bedside table and cracked—
That he could tell his partner that he’d buy a new frame tomorrow.
I wish he could dream about showing up to work without pants.
I wish that he could wake up to the same pain in his jaw at 3am—
Trudge to the bathroom and pop a couple of Tylenol.
I wish he would squint at the bathroom light and bare his teeth in the mirror, studying them,
Notice that they’re not as straight as they used to be—and not as white,
But he’s been keeping up with flossing and his gums don’t bleed anymore.
I wish he’d struggle to fall back asleep, mentally making a list
Of all the things he’d forgotten to do yesterday that could wait until tomorrow.
I wish he could think about tomorrow and cringe.
I wish he could think about tomorrow and dread his morning alarm.
I wish he could wake up sweating, remembering that tomorrow is his anniversary.
I wish he could scroll on his phone for overpriced flower arrangements—
That his partner would get up for their spin class
And catch him looking up how early their favorite bakery delivers.
I wish his partner would chuckle, and kiss Matthew on the forehead,
That he’d say something passive aggressive and sweet like “you’ll get ‘em next year.”
I wish that in the morning light, that Matthew could fiddle with his ring and wonder
How he got so lucky—how he deserves someone, anyone, in this life,
When he can’t seem to get anything right.
I wish a shooting pain in his jaw could bring him back to the present,
That he can’t forget to call the dentist today.

Sin Eater

Have you ever heard of the Sin Eater?
A human hungry enough to eat the bread
off a dead man’s chest,
cleansing the dead of their sins, absolving them, allowing them
into the kingdom of heaven
with one simple act–

maybe someone else would call it mercy.
Most of the time it was an obligation–
to chew the bread, drink the draft, and collect a sixpence,

a penance maybe.
They believed that when you die, sins could sop up,
collect at the pool of your sternum–

that a person could sit on your coffin and eat a supper
of atonement and self-emulation
not to call themselves a saint,

but to save you from yourself.
Instead of being rewarded for their selflessness,
they were seen as outcasts–someone to be feared.

Can you imagine the sacrifice?

—

The day that he dies,
I will not be surprised to find
the bread on his chest–

stale, charred, and crusted,
Resting on his ribcage, waiting for someone
to release him of his sins–

It will not be he who places the meal
on his own body
but his children–

Those who cannot stand to think that
someone they love could suffer for eternity.
Their eulogy will be mostly an apology.

And I cannot live with myself
thinking about the blackened crumbs sticking
between his own daughter’s teeth.

It isn’t penance, selflessness, or obligation
but maybe mercy– because the sins of a father
should not outweigh the livelihood of his kin.

So I will sit on the coffin,
let the flour flake off in the palm of my hand,
guard the casket with gnashing teeth

and cruel tongue–protecting his daughter’s
from a legacy that will outlive them.
I will try to let my mouth water and hum,

willing myself to take the first bite.

Addy Lugo is a mestiza poet from Charlotte, North Carolina. A graduate of Guilford College, AmeriCorps, and FEMA Corps, she was Austin Poetry Slam’s Women’s Individual Champion in 2018 a member of Austin Poetry Slam’s first all femme, all queer-identifying slam team, the Freshfemme Class. She lives in Washington, D.C. and works for the Smithsonian Science Education Center as an Inclusion Program Specialist. A believer in service, she hopes she can represent her community with her actions, accountability and, most of all, her words. She has been published in the Greenleaf Review and additional magazines.

Featured image in this post is, “Land near where Matthew Shepard was left to die in Laramie, Wyoming, as photographed on October 2, 2023” By Tony Webster – licensed creative commons via Wikimedia Commons.