Witness

There, by the sink, gathering all the hair I could manage
while my brother rinsed the mess out of his glistening shirt,
we shared a penitent look above your head and gauged
the water levels of our own discrete chambers by the overt
expression of your composite parts. Whether by chemistry
or hunger, your body said enough and showed us an array
of gleaming citrus and the fixtures of your less-exalted vaults
and opened wide the door for your Pentecostal shouts.
And we have held each other before, we know the smell is mostly juice,
we know the sound of spit and discharged acid’s the most innate
the world can offer. Friends, that day we gathered to celebrate
all that was in us, the well-maligned but joyous
affirmation of what we can lay our hands upon:
this attitude from Titian, Botticelli, mine and my brother’s
attendance, that final time we knelt and nursed your shoulders
for all that may one day come back, for all that is gone.