My first memory is of
his pushing me so high in
a swing, I could but cackle
as though tickled on the feet.
Between time I learned from him
how to throw a curveball with
such finesse, batters would be
mesmerized as they swung, missed.
My last memory of him
is his pushing me against
the car, grabbing me by my
collar, saying, If you go in my house I wll kill you.
In India, by phone, I
got word, my brother had died,
but ’twas a long time coming,
not at all unexpected.
The very day he died, I
dreamt his death . . . then weeks after,
I did go in his house and
found it knee-high with beer cans
but for the room where he died
and where I did learn to pray.
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