poems by nicholas alti

Buried in Berrien, Michigan

We shed similar cells, did the same sins
and faced sister convictions. Eleven months:
from your birth to mine and the limit we had
for ceremony without someone getting sentenced.
Missing you is a form of somnambulism.
Missing you is a four-dimensional sword.
Maybe you never left because there were more stars
where we started, an expansive slate to make shapes.
I would’ve given you my home. Money. Drugs. Dogs.
I should’ve devoured what devoured you,
became a vortex before you, masticate disaster
in my own maw, regurgitate a boulder of cud
to set by your Crocs like a penguin who cares,
spared you this mortuary chill and manila toe-tag.

The Midwest Quarterly Volume 66, No. 4