There was a haze of fireworks
in his hair, the way it disheveled
on the pillow, a celebration of independence

bleeding into the morning, lingering
in the deep blue of early summer.

An array of maps behind his eyes

when he woke, stretching into the next room,
ink blots under his fingernails,
the lift of his arm like the curve of Africa,
the rigidity of his left leg like the Panama Canal.

You are his sister and you say he is a mess of brambles,
a reed-filled ditch. He ignites every few years.
Somewhere the forest shutters, expelling
two white cranes, a doe,
a family of foxes, emaciated.


He stirred the sugar deep

05/13/2008

Author's Note: Part of a series. See also:
1. Abigail, it is raining.
2. a real fine parade, your sister and I
4. Vocalizing the Red Fox Siblings
5. correspondence

Posted on 05/13/2008
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