The first time I found my brother
overdosed, he looked holy. A thing
not to be touched. Yellow halo of last
night’s dinner. His skin, blanched blue
fresco: Patron Saint of Smack. A cop,
flustered, tugged up his shorts, plunged
a needle into a pale thigh. He hissed
awake like a soda can. The paramedic
spoke softly in his ear like a lover,
asked him what color yellow and red
make. What is the difference between
a lake and a river? In the corner
I whittle that used syringe into
an instrument only I can play.
From Late to the Search Party (Scribner, 2025). Copyright © 2025 by Steven Espada Dawson. Reprinted by permission of the publisher.