Brother,

it's a sad thing that you could

see Lee as a child and feel the

way of Life as ziplock bags half-

full in salt & thyme strewn

about the flat surfaces of

the room which were never

flat but curves of hands

where you wished to place

your chin & were instead

inclined to wish for a Man.

Robert was your stand in'

Man of the river, and wasn't

afraid to leave you mad &

scowl you sour-pussed on

the broken leather seats of

his Ford, falling apart but

straight. All eyes on the road,

which is a path you need -

forced from a fork

that held the crust of Bread &

Honey, but rested on the

curved lip of a porcelain

sink, licked & sculpted all

ready with you in the bowl

trying to ride the curve through -

how it was that you saw the sad

in Men before I knew what

Brother meant, or Men says.

Your eyes red are not

his not his not his as you well

or wail on the phone to mom, who

knows what you've done but

doesn't know what to do

because she did it better, and

once you know how to water the well,

you don't know how to live without water.

It was a blonde bowl-cut boy bursting

in wet on the grass, punching his

mother in the chest, angry, angry!

today that made me sad, thinking of

you, and how Lee and Robert are ideas

in ziplocks, freezer burned or pulpy or

half-full and you're still in a bowl,

skating with infant strength up and

hoping for a flat surface

strong enough to bite bread, rich in

the honey of Men who steer caution.