Cheap Reconciliation Poem by Pasha Satara

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