My Brother

My brother’s buying some late night
drive-thru tacos, finds an empty parking lot,
takes two bites, and starts to choke
on his tears, throws the meat and shells
onto cracked concrete. Cries, confined
in his self-made solitude, because he’s
lost and fat and feels too old at thirty
to love himself enough to let his parents
love him. As he tries to catch his breath—
his blubbery rolls trembling—
despair’s miserable voice forces its way
up his throat: escaping as shrill, staccato wails,
tapering in leaky, muffled defeat, never
reaching the edges of the parking lot.

He wants to forget these goddamn gaslights,
overused check cards, midnight binges,
trashy apartments. Forget it all
and let a father’s hug, a mother’s kiss
make him innocent again. Instead,
the darkness leaves him hungry with no appetite,
with only his car engine coughing in cold air
and a broken taco to believe in.