The funeral was four years ago,
but every year I find my brother
in the shed where we store the lawnmower,
the wood steeped in
last summer’s grass.
He cradles a bottle to his chest
and he cries for a woman who left
and fell in love with death —
six months later,
whipped into an affair
that no pleading could cut loose.
The next morning,
the hangover holds him;
he says her name once more
before making coffee,
and I can hear the longing
stand before us in the kitchen
not knowing what to do.