My brother has 8 or 9 teeth,

about 1/4 of his hearing,

a lifelong love of booze and drugs,

old Mercedes, gaudy turquoise bracelets

and the fern-laced woods and waterfalls

of western Oregon.

His rages sudden and wild

like Multnomah Falls crashing,

crackling the night sky blind

in an electric storm.

Chris lives in a small home smack

in the stony middle of the State

Penitentiary down in Salem.

He lurches when he walks,

staggering, almost feral, grasping

for himself alone.

Our history isn't easy nor

a simple story, my recoiling

from Chris, my groans

about his jagged wounded

ways, our bonded perils,

these earthquakes and volcanoes

shrouding a tender heart,

is visceral, automatic,

an addiction of my own,

perhaps.

updated by @ceri-shaw: 02/17/19 02:25:11AM