I’ve a new poem on MacQueen’s Quinterly. Here it is:
My brother would light up a room— take the spotlit stage and turn wake to party. I marveled at our differences. I learned, early on, that all knowledge came from books and lectures in chalky classrooms my brother would have none of. What alien universe had hosted his birth? Bequeathing him a perfect pitch for human interaction. And yes, he made a mash of life— enamored of girls and gangs and guns and stuff you smoked or snorted. His parole officer was with us so often she seemed a member of the family. But, we forgave him all that, welcomed his easy charm and sat back— ready to enjoy the show.