Fraternal Elegy

For that pale space
between palm and wrist,
that universe where children
carry insects to each other,
a name is missing.

I remember standing in the grass
that connected our yards,
our paws plunged in a mesh bag
of red beetles, and thinking,
we could live like this forever.

I would have moved away too.
Older now, I know the name
for residue of corn shuck on scalp;
the kind of shrieking that played
from your windows; how easily

you broke. I think I am living
in someone’s palm because I dream
about creatures as if I were one.
Can you hear me? I am pressing my wings
together as if to say, this is not what I meant.