Brett Foster had orange hair when I knew him in high school twenty-five years ago. He was the kid endlessly practicing freestyle bicycle tricks on the main road that connected our two streets—artistic, acrobatic, and technical tricks with names like “Endo” and “Death Truck.” The self-discipline and creativity that led him to win national freestyle competitions distinguished his career as a poet and academic as well. The month before he died, members of Brett’s church congregation organized a tribute reading and book sale at a local tea house. It was wonderful to see Brett at the microphone. Diminished by multiple surgeries, trying to withstand the cancer’s continuing growth, for a moment Brett looked like himself again. We celebrated his unique presence, his ability to bring us together through the beauty of words. 

My friendship with Brett began in earnest when we were freshmen roommates at the University of Missouri. At that time, neither of us could have suspected that our lives would become so closely knit. Teaching with Brett at Wheaton College has added sweet memories to the history of our long friendship. But I also prize the images that Brett left behind in his poems, and I am committed to seeing his final work into print. 

On the night of his death, actors at Arena Theater performed a selection of the exhilarating, searing poems that Brett wrote in the final year and a half of his life. It was a magical time. Brett was not there, and yet he was. We received a glimpse of the complete man, who was bearing the full weight of his burden. It was a stirring, tender gift.