I hope you have not forgotten me, big brother. I haven’t written in so long, and all I can say is I’m sorry. Too much moving, too much chaos. I’ve been so lonely some of these nights, and the poems you gave me are the only things that have gotten me through. Here is a truth, big brother, one you’ve taught me: poetry can save you.

Here is another truth: water has never tasted as good as after two days wandering in the desert. A strange, scary thing happened to us while we were crossing. We stopped on a ridge beneath a grove of cottonwoods. There was a pump there, an old one, made of iron, I think, and rusted like a dead sea horse. Before we could drink from it, a man came out from the scrub and the brambles, his face red and sweaty, his arms and legs torn to shreds. He was waving a gun and he fired once into the air. I wish I could describe the look he had. He wasn’t tall or skinny or distinct in any way. He was an ordinary man with very clear blue eyes, and he was very afraid. I could tell that he wasn’t a bad man. I looked into his eyes for a long time, and God, I wish I could describe it. He was so sad and frightened, like he couldn’t begin to understand how his life had come to this moment. We were afraid, too. There were nine of us, most of us women, and a few young boys. The man guiding us spoke to the man with the gun. They spoke English. The man with the gun said that the water was his and that we couldn’t drink it. Our guide told him that we’d been walking for two days, that some of the children were in bad shape. We were all in bad shape, really. The man with the gun repeated that the water was his. I was looking at him the whole time and he couldn’t meet my eyes. He was looking at the boys. I could tell by the way he studied them that he had had young sons once. It’s so easy to tell with fathers. He was shaking by then, looking at the boys. He lowered the gun and motioned to the pump. The boys drank first, and then the rest of us, and the man with the gun just watched us, not angrily or resentful or even curious, he just watched with a blank, deeply sad look in his eyes. I wanted to touch him, or to tell him
something, but I didn’t, and I’ve spent many hours in bed wishing I had. I’ll remember that water for the rest of my life. It wasn’t cold, and it was heavy with minerals, with the taste of earth. It was so clear in the sunlight, cascading down. I stuck my face in it, let it wash over my hands, drank it down slowly. And all the while the man with the gun watched and as we walked away he was still standing there by the cottonwoods, watching.

I am working in a factory canning shrimp. The women I work with are funny and cynical and they talk about sex all day long. I’m mostly quiet. I try to stay unnoticed, like you told me. But sometimes I smile at the women‘s jokes, and I think of you. I live south of New Orleans in a small community on the bayou. The homes are on stilts here, and I live with some of the women from the factory. Most of the other families here are black, and sometimes they’ll invite us over and we all boil shrimp and crabs and sausage in one of those big industrial propane boilers, and the old men play guitars, and we drink lukewarm beer and dance. The little boys ride their bikes, and they’re so dark and beautiful. The mosquitoes are thick as a strong rain. They get into my mouth, my nose, my ears. But mostly these nights make me happy, except that I miss you so much.

I am alive, big brother. I hope you’ll forgive me for not telling you sooner.