You handed me my first beer,
drank it straight to the bottom.
‘here the keys to heaven, go.’

Taught me poker:
‘wait for the table to get drunk, McGinn,
before you go bluffing your whole life— all in, ok?’

Stoked my fear of fighting
the day your brother held your head
underwater too long
and you came up swinging, saw me scared and said,
‘don’t worry, I won’t hit you’,
the crimson whispers spiraling,
double helix of blood and chlorine
thinning into the public pool’s cool summer blue.

One time an older kid from the neighborhood
threatened to beat my ass, so you chased him home.

& after staring out into nowhere for a while, you said:
tolerating folk don’t mean you need to be less proud
of who you are or where you’re from.

Mostly, you just taught us silence though—
to keep your feelings inside,
especially when you’re wasted,
especially when the knife’s at your wrist again,
especially when they dial 9-1-1,
especially when undercover officer Rudy fires his 9mm
straight through your neck,
shattering your hyoid,
tearing the thyroid cartilage clean off your spine.

-

Every time a thunderstorm rolls through,
it feels like you’re teaching me something new,
like ‘life’s not roses, McGinn’—
but still, ‘sure beats those jangling keys’.