With always my heart in Philadelphia

Oh dark brother muse, dark as the trenches
that look up to you same as I!
I hear jalopies fire and the bent faces
of your warring, neither with
sand at my toes or the ancient scorpion.
Its sting would pinch a boy,
wouldn’t it. Lounged back tense as
grabbing stomachs at overflowed dinner.
The same boy on the same plate
at the same shook stabbing tower!

Brother, I share your part, and know
your daughter will make her place how
I did not, not in the nook
of your thirteen year old thighs
in this painting of a tub you
thought fit to, artist you, paint
in a certain off-white and mustard
floating like encroaching bullies on me.
And creeping steel wool in the water
and tunnel-dwelling Viet-Cong learned
swimming, swimming as reptiles to my back?
After you washed my face off did
you ever think you’d have kids one day?
Did you think, did you think a toddler
barely walking, who says not I love
but I, I, and I stuttering should
understand his brother’s penis in hand
how he understands his minuscule own?
Is the lesson idle hands will roam?
Did you think, would you think it poor
taste if you knew the hundreds of pounds
my cousin carried with him did the same,
oh dark brother muse, who taught me shame?

__

I’d like any readers to note I initially considered this in nursery rhymes. After realising I have, indeed, grown up since such events, it’d be more appropriate to adopt a soberer and older voice. No one kills your mind whether or not they are brutes, after all. God is fear, same as your brother, and just as forgivable.

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~ by Jeremy on March 17, 2011.

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