Wednesday, May 2, 2012

SonSpot

As you may know, yesterday would have been my brother Joe's 38th birthday. I finally dug the only poem I've written about him, thus far, from the depths of The Hoard. SonSpot was inspired by an incident that happened shortly after the death of my grandmother. Joe, my sister Kyra & I went to the airport to catch flights to Puerto Rico for Grandma's funeral. Joe was turned away, unable to board the flight because he had no form of identification.

Wearing Joe's favorite cap
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
my 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;
and 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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