Here you are again
hammering the door, begging ghosts to let you in—
you, a missile
the room, a swollen chest.

They say don’t go upstairs. You must listen now. When memory insists, remember the room before all this.
Think of Beckett, paper-thin; find a form for the chaos.
Wrap it tenderly. Cradle the ache
so your arms aren’t empty

and bird-foot through the debris
of his memory—glory glory boys in jerseys, six beer cans with scarlet ladies,
leather jacket with lunatic fringe.

Then, a fist at full-mast;
at last, a point-score roar for the underdog.
From here, give grief
new language, sister tongue, celebration.
Don’t go upstairs. Step back
before all this, against the red brick wall:
small again, beside your brother,
blinking at the sun.