When I forgave my brother
his heroin addiction, it was no longer
my story. How I missed the sky’s blue
anointment—nothing withers there.
So, when the woman outside the grocery
store displayed a large cardboard sign
against a bicycle: “87 days drug free,” 
I congratulated her. Her skin was dusty
with dirt, hands a tangle of roots.
My cheery words were never said
to my brother who would disappoint. 
His death a reached mountain peak,
the air cleaner than in the Bronx 
with less weight pressing down.
He went into a drug intoxication coma
where the mind no longer knows    
the body suffers. He woke up 
and died from a heart attack.
Groceries warming in brown bags, 
I left her with his name: Peter,
meaning “rock,” a mantra
for when she’d get the binding urge for crack. 
I’ll remember his story, she said.
Putting the blueberries and lemons
into the refrigerator drawer, I wondered
if tomorrow she would cross out the 7,
write in the number 8, and if
there would be a day 89.