He ached 39 years to be whole
I place a yellow rose on the coffin lid,
piecing him together in the back yard
during those days we all seemed the same,
the brother born deaf in one ear,
bad eyed, a leg too short,
no taller than a boy in middle age,
who lost his teeth fighting for respect,
in need of a new stomach and a new brain,
wanting only work and a wife and a child,
suffocating in his desire for them
I hear again his off key laugh
mocking those prankish genes
that tortured him to doubt
if he ever was to be more than he was,
teaching me despair is a lie
too easily spoken
I finally say aloud,”Go, little brother,”
and he who finished last at everything
skips to the front of the line,
free to savor his new perfection,
first to know what the dead know