The tackle box is fused with rust

The tackle box is fused with rust,

stinking of lead and river silt.

I wiped away the layers of dust

and found the letters and the guilt.

A boy stands by a scorched-up tree,

with my brother’s eyes and chin.

He’s staring out at history

before the fire tucked him in.

I cry about a broken sink

or a deadline I might miss,

while he was standing on the brink

of a hell that looked like this.