The first defender of my poetry
is dead. When I was young, my brothers shot
at birds and rabbits in the scrub and scree
behind the school. Their cruelty made me hot
with indignation comforting to vent.
My cousin, older, bookish, lifeguard-fit,
was apt, supportive and intelligent;
we grew so close our parents made us quit.

Conservative, good-looking, still unlined,
my cousin was a past and future friend
who worked for government but owned his mind,
and though we grew apart, we didn’t end
relationship. We thought we’d have more time,
but now I’ll only be with him in rhyme.