Brother
Because he can’t tell his own story—
may he never sleep another night in jail.
May he never shiver heroin sweat, flea-bitten, rib-broken.
Because he forgot that we’d walked with our dog—
may he never forget the blue-spotted salamanders
we found in muddy banks,
or how we swung by the rope into those rough waves.
May he sing all night, dream of a sunflower woman.
And let me forgive him, brother and consolation—
though he dealt me a bad hand,
and the price rose.
Let me not forget him, brother and sorrow—
returned from prison, those five years
engulfing him like a rubber suit,
his cheerless eyes pondering me—
my every fortune.
