#3: Brother

You left in the womb gifts of nonsense and nicknames
and at birth they were in my marrow.

That mixture of aching love, admiration, fear, and guilt
that arcs through our aortas for the ones who gave us life--
we share a secret knowledge of how to titrate
what makes that blood.

The loveless lives of sad struggle the astrologers predicted for
both of us
don't depress me
because we will walk along, cursed hand in cursed hand,
under inauspicious full moons and pernicious sun beams,
laughing until our lungs breathe their last.




--
prompt: "3. Just For You"
Write a poem to someone and share it with them.