Letter to a brother in rehab
(for Ambronese)
It was Ray Bradbury and you that said,
“You must write every single day of your life.”
This letter to a brother in
rehab
has been a long time coming. I
feel rain. I feel fire coming on.
Once, I called this road the debut of
pain. This feeling tastes like the working-class
experiment of the silence of
past loves, loneliness. The assembly line of futility, and
you’re as far away from me now as
Arkansas and the dust and rivers of Mississippi, but that
doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you’re getting well.
Away from here and away from
the rodeo of life. Of trouble. I can only think of this.
That you can’t take photographs of
your healing. The spiritual.
The parachute you’re carrying.
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