RAY AT 14

Bless this boy, born
with the strong face
of my older brother,
the one who loved
me most, who jumped
with me from the roof
of the playhouse,
my hand in his hand.
On Friday nights
we watched Twilight Zone
and he let me hold
the bowl of popcorn,
his arm draped over my shoulder
saying Don't be afraid.
I was never afraid
when I was with my big brother
who let me feel the baseball-sized muscles
living in his arms,
rode me on his shoulders
through the dusty neighborhood,
who held tight to the fender of my bike
until I could ride it by myself.
The year he was fourteen
he looked just like Ray
and when he was killed at 22
on a roadside in Germany,
I thought he was gone forever.
But Ray stands in the kitchen
in his t-shirt and jeans,
pushes back his sleeves.
He says, Feel my muscles, and I do.