losing our grip on purpose

By Eric Colburn

See my brother break a leg, and see his head
slammed against the pavement by a cop,
see him watch another guy get shot
at CVS, and see him young and dead.
His break—he heard Obama in his head,
rambled wildly, looking around us, thought
he’d been recruited by Brasilia’s top
indoor soccer team, and stayed in bed—

came less than two years later. Meds allowed
a kind of independence. Beer and movies
eased the pain. He found, I think, a peace
he’d always had inside himself. And now,
without him, I drink the world and watch its screens
of sky, and love it, and that’s all it means.

Eric Colburn‘s poems have appeared in earlier issues of The Orchards, Appalachia, Blue Unicorn, and other places. He lives with his family in Cambridge, Mass, where he rides his bike everywhere.