Bruiser

He, with zero trust, zero tolerance,
zeroes in on my eyes that once knew only how to betray me but
lately have learned the wicked wartime trick of
holding secrets in a darker place and coding
them to a cipher my uncle isn’t clever enough to
crack.

“I told you it’s nothing. Some girl in the hallway.”
“Some girl?”
“Coulda been something sharp on her backpack; I don’t know.”
“And you’re saying I should believe that?”
“I’m saying you should take your dump and let me be.”

And, as I leave the bathroom, my uncle hurls a
warning scowl to remind me that mouthing off will
buy me a world of punishment, but not today,
because it’s not worth his time, then he closes the
door to take the call of nature, leaving me to
stride, giddy with relief, down the hall and into the
room I share with my brother,

Where Cody plays with plastic army men, and he,
the general of a pigsty battlefront,
glances at my bandaged hand but asks no questions, sibling-
smart in his willful ignorance, knowing he can’t
know, because eight-year-olds don’t just tell
secrets, they sing them on every unwanted
wavelength, and since Cody’s mouth betrays him
even more often than my eyes betray me, he
doesn’t ask, because he knows he can’t sing to
our uncle the things I haven’t told him,

So the wound remains secure as I lie on my bed, like
a blood oath aching a sweet reminder of the
secret I share with Bronte, this moment marking
the first time I’ve seen my gift as a wonder and
not a curse,

For standing between Cody and his pain is my
obligation, and standing between my uncle and
his pain is my rent, but the pain I coax from Bronte
is my joy.

25) EPIC

I will not give in
To an interrogation
Even from Bronte

On a day in the park where wind-torn clouds sweep
a frenetic sky in vivid Van Gogh strokes, while
Bronte and I read Homer on the grass, studying
for an epic exam of cyclopean proportions, I will
not give in to the interrogation,

As Cody jumps from a tree, oblivious to the strain he
puts on my shins, then climbs again recklessly, no
thought of consequences, his survival skills a
casualty of his painless existence, I will not give in
to the interrogation,

While Bronte leans into my lap, and I read The
Odyssey aloud, feeling her need to know grow
stronger the longer I avoid it, until she notices that
I’m reciting the book entirely from memory, and
she finds the first question to begin the barrage—
but just as Odysseus resists the sirens,
I will not give in to the interrogation.

“You memorized The Odyssey?”
“So what? Homer did it, and I’m not even blind.”
“The whole thing?”
“Only the parts I’ve read.”
“That’s amazing, Brew.”
“It’s just something I do.”
“Like the healing?”
“It’s not healing; it’s stealing.”
“Excuse me?”
“The pain doesn’t leave; it just jumps to me.”
“How do you explain that?”
“I don’t.”