Remi Recchia
Image by Max Flinterman
Remi Recchia is a trans poet and essayist from Kalamazoo, Michigan. He is a PhD candidate in English-Creative Writing at Oklahoma State University. He currently serves as an associate editor for the Cimarron Review and as the reviews editor for Gasher Journal. A four-time Pushcart Prize nominee, Remi’s work has appeared in World Literature Today, Best New Poets 2021, Columbia Online Journal, Harpur Palate, and Juked, among others. He holds an MFA in poetry from Bowling Green State University. Remi is the author of Quicksand/Stargazing (Cooper Dillon Books, 2021) and Sober (Red Bird Chapbooks, 2022).
my brother died
my brother died I tell the store clerk who drops the lemons, tiny suns bagged perfectly in expensive recycled paper, in shock not because of my brother’s death but because of my violating the social script; my brother died I tell the JCPenney sales associate when she asks if I need a smaller size even though I’m clearly drowning in the sleeves so the question isn’t so much a question as it is an indictment; my brother died I say on local television but only in my dreams because neither he nor I are (were) important enough to merit recognition; my brother died I type, failing to understand that my brother’s death is not a question, into the glowing Google search bar reflected in my home office windows which are dark because it is nighttime and my friends are all asleep with un-dead brothers; my brother died I tell the telemarketer offering me a free cruise around the Bermuda Triangle and who without a beat tells me that’s okay sir we have a bereavement package have you ever kissed a volcano; my brother died I tell my wife in bed before and after we attempt to make love but we can’t because I keep getting distracted by how smooth my inner elbow is and how my brother’s forearms had been tracked with pain; my brother died I tell my priest and he gasps, takes a step back, as if his very religion weren’t based on the ugly death of a beautiful man; my brother died I want to scream at his dealer but I can’t because the habit relies on secrecy and his dealer is therefore protected by anonymity; my brother died I tell the crosswalk signal when it tells me to WAIT but I cross the street anyway like an armadillo begging belly-up and if the sidewalk swallows me for jaywalking I’ll just sink in and say my brother died, my brother died, my brother died, and no one was there to stop it.
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