Peter

I haven’t heard from him since he dropped out of school.
(Haven’t heard about him since they took him to Tennessee.)

All sharp elbows and freckles
and we wrestled at the family Christmas party
until we were fifteen.

He’s the reason
My uncle John won’t speak to us anymore.
Instead he mows the laws at my grandmother’s house
Like a Spartan in Raybans
And looks away when our car passes.

When all the cousins stood in line for dinner,
youngest to oldest,
Peter was always right behind me.

He wrote me a letter when my parents divorced.
An ink and paper letter
With my name on it in the mail.
It was going to be okay.

The Family hasn’t said his Mother’s name
in the twelve years since she left John.
At least,
Not when we’re together.

I still have the scrawlings
he left in my sketchbook,
demons and strange caricatures
with crooked arms and narrow eyes.
They frightened my sisters.
I admired him for his daring
and copied the artist’s mark
he stole from Michelangelo
for years.

They busted him the year
My uncle became my aunt.
The drugs in his locker
made her transition
a drier piece of gossip
to the straighter-laced relatives.

I never found out
if he left rehab.