The lights were supposed to be a barrier.
Like salt for a snail,
like the sun for a vampire.
The warm white rope
casting a spell like a mother's womb.
But no no no not here.
A light house beacon and they clamored
like tripod aliens on a crusade.
Leaving my brother shaking as he stands
in plaid boxers with one sock on.
His body weight rests on that foot
the other too vulnerable for touch down.
Are they off me? Are they off me?
He can't stop yelling it,
though I'm pretty sure it was just one.
Its the cold hour of the night
where everything is grim and surreal.
Our skin is pulled tight from our austere faces
and bones poking out.
I am nine and he is eight,
but he's always cried easier.
His clothes had been stripped off so quickly
I know they don't need shaking.
I turn them in, back out, and shake them.
They're off you, brother.
He's embarrased, and wipes his face
as he pulls his shirt down to cover his skinny hips.
Next we shake everything.
A bait and switch and the lights are piled in the corner.
The needle monsters clamor to them as though possessed.
Their radiator humming is unnerving and peaceful.
Teeming is the word to describe it.
Their own Utopia.
They won the war,
we sleep unsoundly, swollen, in the darkness.