Vol. 7


A.M. O’MALLEY
Dear Brother

 

Three babies came between us.

They were all sucked away or withered on the vine.

The summer you were born I had buds forming on my branches.

I had touched tongues for extended periods of time with boys

who thought I was fifteen or sixteen, boys with skateboards, boys

with ripped collars, boys with fathers like mine; gone and drunk.

I rolled in the hills with them,

leaving circles of flattened grass behind us.

I came home through your window.

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