Wednesday, May 2, 2012

SonSpot

As many of you know, yesterday would have been my brother Joe's 43rd birthday. Aside from the rap he wrote, which I pimped for him, I only have one other poem about him, thus far.

SonSpot was inspired by an incident that happened shortly after the death of my Grandma. Joe, my sister Kyra &, I went to the airport to catch flights to Puerto Rico for her funeral. Joe was turned away, unable to board the flight because he had no acceptable form of identification.

wearing Joe's favorite cap, all I have left besides memories
SonSpot

My baby brother died
with my mother,
not in a fiery mesh of auto-
mobiles, like all good
rebels, but in a slow,
black spiral dance.
I could only watch
as his silent, livid corpse
shambled along
the streets, one hand
asking "Why?"—the other
asking "When?"

My baby brother was reborn
When my grandmother died.
I watched him shrink
away as he watched
the plane taking off—
both hands pressed
against glass, asking
"how?"—but his face,
his face knew
the answers—
I could see
it brighten as I left
the ground, until,
as I crossed Cancer,
his tear-scarred cheeks
consumed the sun;

& from a thousand
miles away
I could feel
his heat, could see
his hands digging
into the earth,
finally searching
for the more important
questions.

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