Cleaning woman drops our portrait,
                                                                     cracks glass
decades after shutter-snap.
                                                           Back then, wren-boned, I posed
beside your newly hunky torso
                                                 flexed beneath tuxedo,
your radiant blond wave
                                        (from a bottle—a brother knows),
that sun-shot noon we squared shoulders and sang Cheese: basking
                             ushers at our sister's first no-guarantees
I do.
                   How could we guess what would crash?—

one of my few framed photos of you, still intact

         despite this fracture
arcing between our bowties,
                   scarring your just-shaved cheek?
How can I blame diligent Ana's
                       Endust fingers
when I, too, could have held tighter,
                                 even if unable to sustain
T-cells patrolling your bloodstream
                                           on this breath-fogged side of the glass?