Could I

carry that

for you?

The softness of it,
     so still in my hand,
     a dead bird.
But I know it must feel

like dark matter in yours;

too heavy

                                                    - just, bright -

to com-

prehend.



.



There's something a bit
dusty about us;
if we dared to be
    cute,
we would be bunnies.

The only thing
rabbit here
is our hab(b)it
of hiding
in broad daylight.

We turn invisible.

       The gods cannot see us.

Otherwise,

you mottle and split
like a cobra,

                 so much

       shed skin
  
                          and foreign,
                          new bodies.



.



I shudder at 'was.'

I have scratched
500 days
in the wall calendar,

and I just say 'was, was, was,'

like it's
the breath
of life,

          (something precious
          to buttery mosaics
          and grieving gods,)

    'I was skinny.
        I was nice.
           I was happy.'

N o w  y o u ' r e  d o i n g  i t  t o o.

Your hands are at your own throat

and you've scraped your skull clean,

      inside                          and out.

       Please put down your knife,

we will not                   eat our hearts
                 
                       tonight.


       I brought home icecream.

                Get your spoon.



.



I think I made this.

   This shadow that chose you,
   following you around,
   speaking in tongues;

  and the guilt
       is so much more
             than bruises and string-chokings,

                   slamming your toe in the door
                             when I was two,

       (snake sp(l)its, in the nail,
       to this very day,)

                 bumping away at night

                          when we were empty-handed

                 and sorrowful,

                           dead morning glories

                  crying at dawn.

         (Ladies whispering:
      "so young, so sad")

Never has there been such a
disjointed thought
as trying to be good,

for caring for your mother and

                   so
      
               slowly
    
         drowning her

                         in our specifics
                              and demands
                                   to inherit
                                         something other than
 

                                                    mista­kes.



.



We are her murders
and her children,

you and I -







brother.