Before the Break

We picked my brother
up in the night:
a train depot smaller
than my carport,
concealing arrivals
and departures,
all fears concealed
in darkness, fog,
denial.

Famished, we stopped
at the Pelican for eggs
and hash, my husband lively
in his fatigue, brother
half-asleep through
the meal, me praying
I would not die there,
at the Pelican, baby
kicking around.

Even then, death
sat on my shoulder,
made itself at home
in the chambers of my heart,
an uninvited
and intrusive visitor.
I only think of this tonight,
20 years later,
because I can,
and because my brother
sends me messages
which remind me
of those days,
before the fall,
before
the fear left me
and truth came at me
with a mean right
punch to the gut,
a constant twitch
in my left eye, feet
swollen and sore,
unbendable arthritic
fingers.

Oh, yes, he sits
there still,
not as loud
as he was in the days,
but no less lively.
I want to say to him
that he no longer holds
the key, no longer
makes the decisions,
but I am older
and he never
changes.

I tell him
my brother
will kick his ass
if he makes a move,
my husband will jump
in, too, and my children
will never forgive him,
but it makes
no difference.

He's still going
to sit and brood,
make himself
my most stalwart
companion, present
himself as the lover
he has always been--
faithful and unforgiving.