My brother
doesn’t exist.

        No one has to listen
        to him detail

the inner grooves
of the chamber,

        how the recoil
        jams your shoulder joint

No one has to know

        the difference
        between wounds &

wounds. No one
has to explain to him,

        again, that sometimes
        you can’t see

a person’s pain.
No one has to debate

        the humane way
        to finish off

a wounded doe,
mangled, in the ditch:

        a blade to its throat,
        watch it bleed

out or a bullet
to its heart.

        Where & when
        to strike a target

to disable rather
than murder.

        That maybe the boy
        didn’t talk back,

maybe he was
on his knees,

        his hands up.
        No one fears when

they enter a house,
when they see him

        wash a knife
        at the sink, watch him

recline back in his chair,
close his eyes

        to rest. In that dream,
        I do not exist either.

Wherever my brother is,
I am with him.

        We are lying in a field,
        blades of grass caught between our fingers.