My one-armed, little brother is 6’ 2”
his face quirked, like a question mark.
He’s back from the army,
filled with a silent language he doesn’t understand.
Says he dreams of a job,
maybe something at the post office,
or in the library, shelving books.
At dinner he tells mom he just needs a few weeks
to get his bearings.
Some mornings, I catch him in the living room
slack on the khaki couch, his blond hair growing back,
the TV’s anesthesia unplugged. He stares
out the front window, into the slow daylight.
When I ask him what he’s doing,
he says, just staying in my lane, Bro.
Just staying in my lane.
I troop upstairs to hide his nine millimeter,
again.
Appearances
The Writing Disorder, June 17, 2016
