Brother

by Jacqueline Markowski

I watched you climb scuffed rungs
of southern ideals. With pages smooth
as Thursday’s holy water,
a pleather green New Testament
peeks from a nest behind the driver
side visor in your S-10. My gaze,
interrupted by the swilling
twink of empty rolling
Budweisers. They capture
sunlight while they nudge
your barely worn cowboy
boot, become wedged against
the gas. I feel your want
to be a perfect memory,
smell it on your Listerine breath,
hear it in the non-distinction
of picture and pitcher. And you are
so close, hon. They will never see
you as anything but. Still, you know
otherwise. Your mistakes jump
fences, not like West Texas steer but
like spring sheep. Hold rhythm. Don’t
give up or in. You are so close,
brother. Lock on darlin’, cross stitch twang  
to the undeniable. Maybe cancer is blind.
Or history, stupid. Hold tight
to it all, Tex. Hold tight
to everything
but this.