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it's a cheap reconcilation -
you come knock at my door,
sit on my sofa,
drink my tea, & i knew you once...
my little brother,
i stood & fought for you when your bones were small
& your lisp was noticeable.
now a material man, you are balding.
you park your mercedes convertible on my shabby lane,
after a dinner out & your fill of crab legs & butter...
you come to me.
you scope the incision on my throat where the surgery
still tells i suffered & you lower your eyes...
they dart up to my face & back, quickly.
no dove of peace,
no olive branch, not even
a thorny rose in your hand...
no apology on those lips that are sculpted just like mine,
something mama gave us...
yet so unlike me.
such a cheap reconciliation...
but i know that it is all you can give,
you have no words that will spill in front of me.
yes, a cheap reconciliation...
yet being all you know, & knowing you are
my crazy, damaged-like-me, blood-love brother,
& that i will adore you blindly, cradle to grave...
i will take it.
i will take it.
i will take it.
zio
Pasha Satara
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