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.