Written by Juan Carlos Diaz
There exist a memory that serves as wallpaper
To the suicide scars of my late teens.
Painted upon its surface is a nine
Year-old me, seated quietly in
The palms of a late summer’s
Day watching my older
Brother smack a homerun
Into the wizened face
Of the ninety-four year-old twentieth
There my older brother goes, running clear around
The baseball diamond into the future.