In bed, I practice the soft blinks
of forgetting all the bad
and deliberately mean things
I have done today—the sparkly lavender
lip gloss I stole from Sears
and the bloody nose I gave my brother
when I pushed
his face into the carpet.

Through the walls, I hear him speaking softly
to the cat that has nudged open
his bedroom door, patting
the spongey yellow comforter
draped over his bed.

When I have plucked up
enough courage, I will tip-toe across the dark
landing from my room to his, hoping
that he has forgiven me, and ask to curl
up on the floor beside his bed, or if he’ll allow,
beside him under the blankets.

After we are done constructing
a tall enough wall built from pillows
and his favorite stuffed crocodile
to protect us from whatever evils exist
outside his blue racecar-shaped
bed, I will flip over and ask for him
to hold me, and he will snake
his smaller arm over mine.