For MB

I wrote an orphaned sober

said dear my baby brother

my music in the corner with 

his dead father’s fist

 

to my baby brother

smothered in an easy line

reason twisted in his blisters

he softened to syrup

 

for my little addict

to whom I read Annabel Lee 

before each light–

they parched us like puppets

slack and stuffed

two on a stale cushion with 

hollow pockets at our thighs

 

my missing muse and I

our left ears siphoned by a python’s 

lick, gowning a lousy and 

silver serenade (it ends up in our 

bellies)

I taught him how to play

he taught me how to die

how to seep

in ruby sleeves until we slipped 

on jet black and

 

I don’t know if he’s alive

 

oh, my open stray 

and his orbit ‘round the melons

all of him dead but that wet fur 

sowing two limp twin berries–

gasping his snow from my necklace 

trading our song for his motherless curb

pumping his own heavy belly

 

my baby brother

nailed me to his singing 

packed his only bag

and died