I surveil his ignition hands,
puckered by bloodline, touch
the memories steep with pain:
when he dunked my head
between swamp jaws,
tucked me into
a Boston Crab in the hotel pool,
drowned himself
in gasoline and struck
a match. And I try to picture
that grinning summer
we jumped
like mullet in and out
of hose-filled barrels,
the hot pavement hissing
as water slapped
in escape. I swam then
with a time bomb, and
called him bubby
because I couldn’t pronounce
brother.
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