Like brothers everywhere
he kept the stain close by
perhaps to remind him
revenge is a dish
best not served.
He could not remember
how or when he got it.
Maybe it was that first winter
of the bones –
the cold was so mean
it broke the horses hooves
out on the river
and he’d held his brother
under the thin ice
just to feel his weight
turn the water blue.
Perhaps it was the spring
they both fell in love
with Rachel.
She wore too few clothes
and her smile,
slung low in the pocket
below her hips,
always dared them
to try and pull her blouse up
or steal cigarettes
for her to dangle
between her lips.
His mother swore
it was during the summer
all the trees died.
The locusts grew round –
plump pods that burst
when they got caught
in the streets’ hot tar.
He’d thrown his brother
off the roof,
wondering if boys who limped
could fly
and why his tears
got stuck
on the way down.
But he remembered
a day in November
the sky so black
it made the blood
in his veins
stand still.
The droning of leaves
was all he heard
as rock cleft
flesh from bone
and the stars
went battered and unbalanced.
And then there was nothing left
but his brother’s grin
and the cold caress
of his mother’s tears.
—Brendan Sullivan
Brendan Sullivan lives in Virginia, where he enjoys the ocean as much as he can. His poems focus on ordinary magic in everyday life and can be read as verbal snapshots. He is a water sports enthusiast and enjoys surfing, kayaking, sailing and diving.
