i.In the Sonoran Desert, my brother hands me a revolver. In place of tendernesshe tells me to kill a woodpecker. It’s injured, on its back like a sunbatherthrashing in a gravel bed.                                                           My brother stands behind me—arms around mine like a mini golf date. Our hands, a nestingdoll with an exploding heart.                                                              A crowd of saguaros                                                                    turn their heads to witness.They multiply in my periphery, hold their hands uplike I’m a cop. I’m crying. I can feelthe trigger even now.                              Death’s first lesson: I am alwaysin the present tense. I see the target. My brother’s one closed eyeplus mine become a pair                                                                        wide open.On my knees, I make a pit of sunhot sand, bury the bird, then the bullet                                                                                      like the seeds of a flower                 I’m scared will someday grow. ii.Five years before disappearing, my brother was a florist.No one believed his hands—knuckles split openfrom knife fights, sutured shut at the kitchen tableby our neighbor, the nurse—might grip, peacefully,a fistful of tulips, hyacinth, baby’s breath.We called his halfway house church.A crucifix above each bed, door, window. Jesus sufferedon every surface. No room for doubt.The front lawn was patchy as a checkers board. My brother dreamedof emeralds in a pile of tiger’s eye. He executedevery stage of grief in a Home Depot aisle, saved the money, boughta sprinkler to cure the disease.                                                                    Its healing streams like harp stringsslackening in the sun. iii.The gnats are dozing on my bedroom ceiling. Little silhouettes crouchingin a field of eggshells. In the haze before sleep, I convince myselfthey’re praying for meto turn the lamp back on. I’m dimly lit by the alarm clock—from way up there, I’m the centerpieceof their modest Sistine Chapel. Hairy-chested god, sprawlingacross a wrinkled duvet. In darkness, I hear only their faraway hum, softas a vending machine. I dreamof long-stemmed marigolds                                                              snaking below                                                              a circle of birds. iv.In the city of my suffering, I am both dreamer and architect.I built, for you, a suburb of worship, brother.The statues I erected look less like you each year,all smothered in memory’s patina.It’s spring now. Here I am, lateto the search party. Uncertain feetbehind my flashlight’s beam.I’m the one to find you.                                                               I don’t feel grief.The flashlight aimed at your bodyprojects a shadow across the mountainside.             The shadow is the shape                                                                     of my relief.