To C., Which is to Say

one day, I will write a poem
for my brother. I will plot
the lore of how we die, or
live, or coexist as surrenders.
We are lock & key—my fist opens
his mouth & I fillet our storybook,
this portrayal of boy & girl as hip-
joined, toothless. Just because we breathe
in tandem does not mean our stanzas
align. One day, I will bring a flash-
light into my brother’s bed & our wars will be over-
lapping. We were always fighting
the same words, retelling how I learned
to shield my voice & he learned to cave
his throat. Maybe our deaths will run the same,
twinning in transit, waving the flag
of our concession. We are lock & key—
parting skulls on the same borders,
trimming the valleys of our lisps. My brother
only wants neat endings, battles won
in half. Boy & girl as empty barrels smoking
out their backs, trigger-happy. One day,
I will speak & there will be no echo, no relapse,
no baby teeth spelling out our trail. One day,
I will love and there will be no poem.