Dear brother,
I want the truth in the amber

bottle, empty, beside you. The vomit
that sealed your lips.

The abundance of you and your addiction,
and the decay. I want you open

to a wholeness between us.
Not this fissure. Not this blank country

shorn of what is true. I want
the weight of your truth

to arrive the way that bright summer
afternoon and its black SUV

pinned me to asphalt,
opening fresh holes in my body.

Brother, the body’s only promise
is that it will open—

so much depends on this openness.
The wholeness of what is broken.