My brother Brian is dead
The Half-Brother I never knew,
The son my father would admit to
(The one he loved instead).
He is in the dirt now, more than a year
Has passed since he stopped crying—
The graveside service, the shared umbrella,
My father, his mother, wild with rage and despair.
They hack each other now with whispers, lies and hate,
Denunciations of hope and memories of Brian’s blood.
June 15th, was the razor sure?
The live dissection, the opened veins,
The blood poured out like liquid flames—
Was it sickness, Brian, or a cure?