for laine
what would we give,
my sister,
to roll our weak
and foolish brother
back onto his bed,
to face him with his sins
and blame him
for them?
what would we give
to fuss with him again,
he who clasped his hands
as if in prayer and melted
to our mother? what
would we give
to smile and staple him
back into our arms,
our honey boy, our sam,
not clean, not sober, not
better than he was, but
oh, at least, alive?
