To RPV

You had once questioned your brother for trusting his spouse over you. You drew upon the chemistry of blood, touched on the inferiority of choice symbolized by rings taken off when washing dishes.

You told me your brother had attended the funeral of mother’s father, that this solitary instance is reborn in memory now that your brother has passed. You’ve mastered the use of clichés: eye for an eye.

Finance prohibited my making the trip. My perceived stubbornness knocked mother off the flight anyway, & now I’m back on. She now pouts while lying in bed.

The decision was yours.

You chose to ignore a faulty argument you made based on hierarchy, as if rank had anything to do w/ remorse or sincerity. You settle for the nephew over the in-law for representation—& that’s what you reduced it to: a political move.

You tell me I should be there, but remind me mom mo sana. I pack claiming principle; I travel, ego bruised.

I inherit all this: the decisions, their consequences, the land, what’s to be reaped, the tension, the voids, the joys, more so pains.

The name I keep, & gender says future unions or births means my passing it on—our very expansion.

Your brother having died because of something I survived: a guilt I inherit as well.

I inherit moments past, prior notions, contentions set forth years back, like how your brother trusted his spouse over you, his blood.

& now as I pack for a slot allotted for euphemisms like your better half, I repeat a notion I inherit as well: she is your wife, I your blood—it is not my choice, but silly science binds me.

& now I’ve inherited failed efforts to lift this whole mess to higher ground, feeling my way through another baptism to this fraternity.

Optimists like to think of death as a moment for change. We've succeeded in cementing what reality has shown us: that death is merely continuation with a cough.