It was russet light, Orchard Lane, white-shingle colonials and the ch ch of the sprinklers, small rainbows in twilight, the fabric-smell of the funeral parlor on us. From a fence we fell to the fairway on all fours, a sky of purple berries, and my hand swollen from a doubleheader, Ho Chi Minh, a tin sound in the air. A brash oak casket was less than the absence of your brother's arm still clear as the ghostly rubber of the mound. Your Heaven Scent heavy as we slid into the trap, and the white number of the flag grew incandescent. You who loved the classics said Orion's eyes were wild birds against pure black, and our bodies burned into each other.
		Copyright © 1998 Peter Balakian.