I should stop going through things
Yet I am so close to closure.
Four weeks to the day
Robert died (in April 02) I wrote:
There’s fire in my belly, I want to spit.
And shortly after:
I
There was an ugly girl looking back at me
Instead of my own reflection. Her face is
Darkly tanned as only a man’s should be.
II
I pull the damp towel across my face pressing hard, knowing I should dab. My brother is dead. The astringent is made of lettuce, supposed to cool dry skin and it feels good when the air hits. Tears fall as fingers dab at the carrot cream that smoothes tiny wrinkles around the eyes. When did I get those? When did I get old enough to deal with this. When did my father get so frail. Why wasn’t he the one to kill. I killed my brother, didn’t I? Tears fall in rivers.
III
Can I fall apart now?
-nooo, not yet.
When?
-later, soon.
Why?
-he needs you,
-your daddy needs you,
-Robert needs you,
-you need you.
IV
It’s been over two months and his birthday’s come and gone yet I still cry most mornings. I owe him that. He wasn’t ready to leave. The desire and need to comfort him still remains and I feel that my thoughts are as much for him as for me.
V
I gaze up at the browning blossoms and disseminate slowly, gently pushed by slow rhythms until my eyes swell and crust and the tissue shreds in to a soggy drying mess. I thought she’d gone, Meloncholy, but time passed and she’s shown herself again.
