Inspired by Chris Andrew’s “Brother”

Every mouth molds prayer like little sea children raising
sandcastles, you scribe your name again on dust, quietly
scrub it. Say, we have spent more loneliness together
than time. I watch you feed the wall with
the rest of you. The way you wish tenderness is not frail
so she could stay or stop shattering like our little
quest for redemption. Some days, you forgot what it
means to be gentle with yourself, even when the late
rain returned some limp florets to your foot & even
when we tried faking satisfaction. Dear sister, I know
you are tired, you are lonely, you want to
bounce into your song and dance in your own land—in your
mother’s land, where girls your age are species of new flowers,
where the sky saves a moon from drowning into night. In
your own mother’s land—where threnodies won’t hold your mothers’
festivals. How so much you thirst for love, for a boy to hold your frame &
call you home—the one with cilium curved like
shadows sprouting flowery memories in your mother’s
eye, one with gentle bloom, gentle love. Dear sister,
today, I draw you into lines of poetry, every word is you,
your body—damp soil, an orchard love shall plant itself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Lukáš Dlutko from Pexels