Brave

In the springtime

we traveled only

by delicate footsteps,

down dirt paths and

into the river.

I coughed

up storms and stones

from my throat,

crunched them with

my red rocket teeth,

mouthing kisses and

bruised words that had

banged round my bones

for far too long,

clawing at my ribcage,

craving to make a sound.

There was always

some syrup maiden,

her tattoos

staring holes through me

at bars all across

the Midwest,

and I wondered if her pores

took in the magic

they felt

around them,

orgasmed slightly,

with the glow that

felt so good as it

slipped down their necks

and made music with their curves.

Little girls in pink shoes,

little boys in plaid blues

wave and wink

at the grocery store cashiers

that no one else

seems to notice.

My grandmother cleans

while my younger brother

slowly melts away

in a hospital bed built for two,

he wants to sail

down the river instead,

telling grand stories

and drinking bourbon,

smoking his pipes,

making circles in the air,

but perhaps

his watering adventure days

are over and

whats left is

eating oatmeal

at least with a smile sometimes,

with a large spoon,

and breathing heavy.