august

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?

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