You handed me my first beer:
Dutch lager,
drank it straight to the bottom—
“here the keys to heaven, go,” you said.

Taught me poker:
“wait for the table to get drunk, McGinn,
before you go bluffing all in, ok?”

Other things:

Stoked my fear of fighting,
the day your brother held your head
underwater too long
and you came up swinging—
“don’t worry, I’m not swingin’ at you, McGinn,”
as crimson whispers spiraled
like double helix
into the cool summer blue of the public pool.

One time an older kid from the neighborhood
threatened to beat my ass for nothing,
so you chased him home.

After staring out into nowhere awhile,
you said:
“tolerating folk don’t mean you need to be less proud
of who you are or where you’re from.”

I don’t really know what you meant by that,
but it felt nice to have an older brother.

But mostly,
mostly you taught me silence—
how 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,
I like to think it’s you
teaching me something new,
like “life’s not roses, McGinn”—
but still,
“sure beats those jangling keys.”