for my brother, Pablo Jacobo ‘Jack’ Suneson (1949-2015)

You are not yet born in the capital of Mexico
In the Sephardic apartment by the cathedral
And Aztec Zócalo. I live in an orphanage but
Often sleep on the floor between uncle Captain Sam
Who snores with his sunglasses on and the tiny
Indian servant. Your mom buys a white suit
And roams from city to city; finally to Laredo
Where you see light and Puerto Vallarta where
Richard Burton burns out with Elizabeth
In their Night of the Iguana. You never get

The story of your dad, his name or country,
And so you wander Canada, Turkey, a kibbutz,
Following each false clue. My younger brother is
A caballero on a blue horse, a ruddy master
Charles Dickens makes up when he tours
The NewWorld. No one like tall Jack. A smile
Captures doves, dazzles them off roofs, a wink
Becomes a conspiracy of warmth. Good wife,
Five kids, and you partner with your sharp mom
To bring rural Mexico arts up to Gringo eyes.

I see you last at a university party for your mom.
Jubilant, you shake deep hands with everyone
From Babe Ruth to the Pope, entrancing them
With easy grace. In the crowd of noise our last
Touch is a huge embrace, and then, dumbbell
Jack, you don’t take your pressure pills or who
Knows why nature is mindless and meticulously
Indifferent to life. You have a stroke burning you down,
But soon, on your stallion you hope to roar back
From mumbling hell. Your speech is plans,

Horizons, and not yet in sound mind you try
To crawl out of bed. To dress and leave? You fall
And break your crown. ‘Jack and Jill go up
a fatal hill.’ Twelve feet away the nurse wired
To your bed cannot hear your move until the thump.
The floor floods with your blood from Mexico.
The surgeons stick their tools in you to save
But nature strikes once more. A demon stroke
You bear and never wake again. I’m on the plane
To weep for you, great Jack, wild, Jack, poor Jack.