The Fifth of May
for my brother Stuart

I was not too political, as I
was counting on you to express
my heart of hope without the difficulty
of saying out loud the things
that divide. These were not

Arguments that I wanted.
Then one October Sunday dying
– 5.5 months from that fifth of May –
[Twas an agonizing Cinco de Mayo
when you prophesied your fate.] &

Your halting words tried to
sustain me although crying
from the pain of bodily betrayal –
pancreas riddled with pathology &
a liver fading faster than your sprints of

Sweet athleticism so strong &
yet they could not catch a break
to win nor hold this awful thing at bay.
Now from that May & autumn-of-loss
I find myself shouting

For justice with your own words of
force that made me shy. Your politics
of mercy now grow fierce inside me until
I wonder each day how a man
of heaven holds the earth this way.

© 2016 Anna Mosby Coleman