Our long lost brother watches windows
and, directing us to look up, we follow his
gaze to high above, into the indigo sky.
Together we all acknowledge the sudden
desire: to shatter the glass again and flutter up,
the stress in the groin sustains its pressure,
fearful of lust we gather as a flock, our eyes
closed, stand on tiptoe with little better to do,
seal our lips to the glass. We are distant kin,
orphans and prodigal sons, who open the bedroom
doors and glide down corridors, submerged
in moonlight striking the lips and cheeks,
onto last month’s magazines, the carpet,
across the back of the armchair, a girl forged
of doorknocker brass who carries a bucket
with no bottom, constant as a migraine, restless
as desire, embers sift over the roofs of our
neighborhood, replace our heartbeat with names
of the lost, who have found a home somewhere else,
as a brother finds his sister—it’s her I think of.
maybe you do too, when muscle tightens in a silver
line. I’m sorry no one noticed her out here.
Copyright © Persea Books 2011
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Persea Books.