Return Ticket

I have 
booked, again,
a return to
that dry place,

where his death
in the holidays
killed my faith
in families,

seven years 
before,
and I am still
not ready

to fly there,
to be my brother’s
ghost,
to be mistaken

for him
when shopping,
or standing,
being Chris

for those
people,
who insist
I am him.

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