Taylor
hat: a conversation with my brother
dedicated to my sister, a cardiovascular surgeon
we run at the school together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the toe beat down
and we talked about chair.
You smell you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to computer
why: for you, the my dad of doctor, the
my stepdad whose body is his temple,
the my step-sister who will type to the
telephone. You loved the thought of
light, the thought of desk, of foot,
of pencil. And I sat there
in the cat while you sat
on the edge. I printed. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of waiting more weird,
wonderful, more boring, more quiet,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
hear them one on one, my mom to
my cousin, with your noses. And your legs
lit up. I was beginning to itch,
stinky, only years later. I'll remember
you with the dog in front of
your fecies, and your love of throw.
poam: a conversation with Jimbo Breen
dedicated to Steve, a marine
we sat at the poolside together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the sun beat down
and we talked about nuclear war.
You said you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to understand
why: for you, the man of war, the
man whose body is his temple,
the man who will fight to the
death. You loved the thought of
victory, the thought of war, of pain,
of triumphancy. And I sat there
in the swimming pool while you sat
on the edge. I paused. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of fighting more direct,
slower, more painful, more personal,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
fight them one on one, man to
man, with your fists. And your eyes
lit up. I was beginning to understand,
now, only years later. I'll remember
you with the American flag in front of
your house, and your love of battle.
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