Dear Brother

I cannot know the agonies

that pulse and echo in your veins. 
I cannot know your grief. 
My pain is but a shadow thrice removed,
and if I find the darkness heavy here in this
slight space to me allotted,
then what must it be like for you
who swim against those inky currents
with no guiding light or boat to carry you?

I do not know the words that will with
shining breath undo the deepening horror
of your loss. What can I say beyond the tired
platitudes that crowd around you,
that hasten sinking? I would that brotherhood
meant I could be blessed with balms and salves
to remedy all hurts. I would that my embraces
were not found wanting.

When others talk of childhood,
their faces change, soften—they speak with joy.
My own past youth—for now I journey through another kind of youth—is 
scarred instead by the ghost of my eccentric loneliness. 
I was strange, and craved an understanding
that I myself did not possess. 
You know that changed, and how,
and when, and in what manner life
for me ceased to be the same. You know my debt.
You know its depths.

So I am sorry. Sorry that I do not know,
that I cannot know. For knowing has ever been
our cloak against the world. Instead I linger
here, on night’s edge, hoping that my voice
will bring you comfort.

Because I must resign myself
to presence—and hope that in some minute way
that aids you on your bitter journey. 



Lista de imágenes:

1-2. Nádia Maria, Ambas imágenes de la sere Ad infinitum, 2014.