and this is what my brother does for fun

apropos

"anxiety is the dizziness of freedom."
-kierkegaard

ballpoint

as i print letters
on water color paper

he strings veins and lungs
with flicks of the wrist
and acrylic bristles.
now the canvas has a nervous system
now i can see it beating, patient,
rhythmic.

heaving, breathing
he and canvas shoulder
heavy spectrums,
the vibrating weight of color:
red, brazen, slick
and glaring, strokes like slaughter,
exhaling hard.

under my hand, black ink
settles quietly into off-white.

prometheus' daughter

you inhaled heat
as i crossed my legs
and watched ruin arise
from smoldering ash.

eyelashes bat easily,
scaring moths from the fabric
of your lungs, keeping me
from looking up.

in the cold i noticed my knees,
crooked in the shadow of skirts
and sisters.

my blind hands, small and scared
can't make fire from sandpaper,

still shaken from the echo of locks
down empty hallways,

still bent to the angles of elbow
and hip, your jawbone's downward turn.

a lit match mirrors the spark in your lips,
held silently, kissing the frayed edge of leaves
spread unapologetic on the pavement.

memorial

you came home bandaged,
wearied white. not hiding,
you said. just healing.

I wanted to see where you'd been colored in,
where blood mixed with ink
and skin. I wanted to know how it hurt you.

I wanted to fingerprint your shaken cells,
sore and dividing in silence.

***

you woke up aching,
bindings unraveled
and colors bled.

cradling your arm, I peeled away
the sterile linen second skin,
exposing

bruised and freckled
the tender pigment
glistening pink:

a full peach blooming
in the shade of your shirtsleeve.

silent lives

I slept all day, and now all I can think about is my heart beating through an apple.