Biloxi Beach Boulevard

we woke up in a casino hotel with your mom

in the other bed

sharing a bowl and the sight of the bay

from the height of eleven stories

the two of you crudely, tenderly talking younger

brother home on leave from his death squad

I was silent and cold without clothes but without

fear as the love

had my hands and mouth following

a pattern much older than us

in the teal Zen of the Biloxi Beach McDonald's

we shared a side of the booth for what felt

permanent held together by arms and our backs

to the retirement crowd and construction workers

on the way home alone—dropping you off

at the bar you owned—passing a sign

announcing GRIEFSHARE MONDAYS

you the closest thing I had to a sister maybe

I was chanting, “don't ever let me treat you like

a back home bitch,”

I was learning how to apologize

then and I will miss you, red sheeted body