August champion

My brother drinks whole
milk straight from the jug

standing before the open
door of the fridge free

of care and yet rapturous
as cold Boreas embraces him

a victorious hero of old
after the games and wars of summer

leave him weak and strong
and drunk on joy and sun

and milk. I watch the white line
dropping rhythmically in gulps

entranced and unable to look
away from this crime of liberation

I could never commit without
remembering that August champion

and roguish milk god of yesterday
my brother: Joe.

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