April 22, 2014

what I meant to say 

That letter to my brother, swinging my fists. There are so many ways to say

I'm angry, so many disappointed narratives to lift out of the tar, hold up 

like dinosaur bones. The same old show-and-tell. "See?" I flay

the page with invectives, run the long receipt of examples as if he might have 

forgotten. He hasn't forgotten. My reminders are tired engines crawling toward

nowhere. The journey's turned into a moonscape with no visible horizon,

and I, its depleted but still-demanding passenger. Days later, and no word

back, and this silence rends another tear in our broken story. And yet I'm insisting,

as if another round will rouse what's died when I need to bury it for good.

The fight's not worth the wounds it leaves. I'd hug him if I could.