CHRIS

My brother has 8 or 9 teeth,

about 1/4 of his hearing,

a lifelong love of booze and drugs,

old Mercedes, gaudy turquoise bracelets.

His rages sudden and wild

crash like Niagra Falls crackling

at night in an electric storm.

He lives in a small home smack

in the stony middle

of the Oregon State Penitentiary.

He lurches when he walks,

almost feral, grasping

for himself alone.

Our history isn't easy nor

a simple story, my recoiling

from Chris, his jagged

wounded ways, our bonded

perils, the earthquakes

and volcanoes

shrouding
our tender hearts,

is visceral, automatic,

an addiction of my own,

perhaps.