Sibling Rivalry

sometimes the hallway is an ocean,
especially at night
especially during the storms that
rock the house, that pull at our roots.
sometimes he throws out debris,
boxes of toys and old clothes that don’t
fit him anymore and he stares at me like he
wants me to protest.
sometimes he lets out sharks
because he wants blood, he wants revenge
and he doesn’t care who he catches in the crossfire.
and sometimes he does neither,
he draws himself up and wades through the wreckage
and shuts the door quietly,
quietly goes into his room and sits out the
storm in a daze.
I wish I could rattle him out of it,
but the distance between my door and his is
much further than it looks
and there’s an ocean between us.
this is when I turn the volume up,
when I will the strained and clumsy music to filter in
through the cracks of the door frame.
I know it will claw its way into his chest,
settle down somewhere just beneath his throat,
and tell him all the things I never could
because I can’t swim that ocean,
I just can’t.
in the morning I get up at dawn so I can
clear away the gore before he notices;
it’s the least I can do.
I stack the bodies and burn them,
I force the water stains off the walls and straighten
the picture frames that were knocked off course.
and just when I get the reek of blood and salt out of the air,
he stumbles into the kitchen, all bleary eyes and tousled hair,
and he never says ‘I know’ or ‘don’t worry’,
just pours himself a glass of water and asks
for that song I played.

The Evening Star

I’m sorry brother.
we’re short on time and I have
too many words stored up in my
mouth, words I tucked away
for more appropriate & quiet times.
this is neither quiet, nor appropriate,
but we’re short on time and there’s
so much to say.
outside the alligators are devouring your children,
swallowing their alligator tears with
alligator teeth, alligator smiles that burn like
something held in your chest to
take the place of religion,
oh god is this how you made me
is this what you meant for me to become?
‘I just wanted to hear you laugh again,’
I’m saying through the alligator’s teeth,
I’m saying through gritted teeth that I grit
not for myself, but for my god.
‘we were brothers once, we were full of
blood and timeless youth.
don’t you remember? but that’s history,
that’s nothing, we’re out of time;
the alligators
have got hourglasses for eyes, the sand is
pouring down fast & thick
and over the rushing
grains I can hear my god of peace shouting
strike him down, strike him down.
I’m sorry brother;
I’m sorry we are ripped apart
by more than just our bloodlines, but
can’t you see the faces that turn
when I pass?
once I scorned them & then they
returned it ten times worse,
burned this into my hands and
now I must carry all of their hearts
in my chest.
I’m sorry brother, but this is too much;
one man canot suffer for his people
& still have time to make his brother smile.