he smells of Coppertone, charred hamburgers, the wet sock stink of Frito-Lays. He’s not the blond boy standing proud in the photo on your mantelpiece, seven swim-suited cousins holding hands like a daisy chain at the summer reunion, knuckle crunching your hand because you were the two oldest boys, the game being if he kept smiling, you kept smiling, the game being who’s the tough guy here? He is, not you, you poofta standing in a pink donut ring, not you, you poofta, who cries when he smiles at you and knuckle crunches a tree frog and you know the game but you also know your lips are trembling by the time the frog’s eyes bulge and film over.

When your dead cousin visits, you’re pleased he doesn’t smell of garbage-strewn alleys and rank BO, like his late-night poundings on your door when he’s all Come on cuz, you’ve always had it better than me, share the wealth. And it’s true, at least you had a mom til you were fourteen, at least your dad kept his fists to himself. And it’s true, he always shared what he had, taking you to the playground after your mom’s funeral, sitting on the swings and chugging the oaky sting of his Jack Daniels. He knew bad. Didn’t need to pretty it up. Just let you swing and sob and chug. You took turns pushing each other on the merry-go-round until the world spun into a whiskey-soaked swirl, until you puked and puked, your insides on the outside. He gripped your shoulder, You’re okay now, and led you home.

When your dead cousin visits, you say How’s it going, and you’re pleased that your voice is low and gravelly, not a tremor. His hair scraggles to his shoulders, collar bones like railroad tracks. He comes at you loose limbed, like he’s held together with rubber bands, and clasps your shoulder. Still a grip like a vice and you try not to flinch, tell yourself that the game is if he’s still smiling, you keep smiling. You break out the Jack Daniels and offer him the first gulp.