Two years ago, my older brother
was shot dead and still I cannot
quell this sense that I failed him.
As children, my brother told me
that his handwriting was
so small and pretty—
it was like his letters flew like birds
afar on the horizon—
because that was how he
hid from his teachers.
I laughed at his absurdity.
Why would you hide from
people paid to teach you?
We were adults when I
learned of his dyslexia,
of how he, the peacock,
hid age-old festering wounds
with emerald feathers he
had meticulously preened
his whole life.
My brother, the beautiful one,
was a dysfunctional husk
of all I had known of him,
truly odd and pathetic
like I was, vulnerable,
like I was, but by then
it was too late.
For too long, I echoed
the lies he told me about himself—
how free he was, how bold he was,
until I was blind to the cruelty he would suffer,
as well as the cruelty he would inflict.
I did not truly see him all his life,
my glorious mirror of opposing virtue,
and when he was undone, I was undone.
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Issue 83 -
Editor's Note -
POETRY - Tory Adkisson
- Cynthia Atkins
- Simon Anton Niño Diego
Galera Baena - Daniel Barnum
- Nathan Blansett
- Julie E Bloemeke
- Daniel Bourne
- Jo Brachman
- Conor Bracken
- Christopher Citro
- Mary Crow
- Andy Eaton
- Jennifer Franklin
- Janlori Goldman
- Jose Hernandez Diaz
- Alison Hicks
- Michael Homolka
- Rogan Kelly
- Peter Kline
- Rodney Terich Leonard
- Thomas Mampalam
- Laura Marris
- Michael Montlack
- Amanda Moore
- Tanya Muzumdar
- Guimarães / Olsen
- Simon Perchik
- Sarah Perrier
- Megan Pinto
- Deborah Pope
- Denzel Xavier Scott
- Leona Sevick
- José Sotolongo
- Page Hill Starzinger
- Memye Curtis Tucker
- Laura Van Prooyen
- Hilary Varner
- John Sibley Williams
- Stella Wong
-
BOOK REVIEW -
INTERVIEW