When I write about extraordinary
I use blood as ink.
I climb a trellis to search for light.
There is porridge in a bowl
with sugar and milk
spilled on the table.
The past is future,
as much as anything.
I breathe in my brother’s lungs.
I see sunshine
shine in his tears,
run miles and miles synchronized
together,
woven in a life.
We climbed stones,
battled bullies,
sat side by side in Gene Autry movies.
Licked cones back and forth
and fought over what mattered most,
toys.
Then met in dreams until birds called us,
from miles away at dawn,
brother flying with brother,
until day stops calling, someday.