Prayer to My Brother in the Sun

In nineteen ninety-three, with me sixteen,

you’re god, at least his priest, out on the lawn.

Your robes are Polo shorts and muscles full

of iron, and your eardrums shot by Guns

‘n Roses. Headphones, on their halo, pin

peroxide-golden spikes against your scalp,

and sacred Raybans plate your eyes with night

to shrink and twin the sun to stars of ice.

An alloy, sweat and molten Coppertone,

converts your face into a smelted mask,


the frown as proud as Terminator’s when

he walks through Armageddon, tan intact.

In fact, I think you’d be a Kennedy

if destiny had taste, and, if I had

my way, you’d stay outside, let sunset plate

your chest with all the gems that armored priests

of Exodus. You’ll melt tonight to dawn’s

zirconium and turquoise, shine like ice,

that summer diamond. Our suburban i-

con, shine as high as you can stand it. Blaze


away the night that blinds the windowpanes.

You’ll bind the moon into its nautilus

of thoughts. Stay out, and winter, when it comes,

will run into the heat wave that the songs

have promised. Comet, better yet, the best

Apollo spaceship made, you’ll rise by fire

and use the booster rockets in your booze

to flare into the stratosphere and tear

the ozone open. There, you’ll flare so bright,

the ultraviolet eye that radiates


on all of us will close. It won’t. I know.

I call you in to dinner, parents, prayer

too soon. You fly into a dozen years

of heat and hurt. Then, older, sober, paled

by God, you leave me cold. Amen. Come in.