I.
Dirt caked knees, bloody teeth, and
strawberry stained hands. The trees resist
our attempt at domination like Mother
resists Father, and you resist silence. Firefly
juice lights
our way back home, but we still cannot find it.
II.
Time slips away; he is not kind.
Sharp words and punches thrown to
bruise, a manifestation of misplaced
anger, an ode to our bitterness. I hate
you.
I want to be you.
III.
Years smooth out our edges and those angry
punches. Forgiveness for our parents,
forgiveness for ourselves. We sign a silent
treaty, but the fraternizing is never addressed,
as if mentioning a kind gesture will bring back
winter.
IV.
Time hides and lies, lies and hides,
and I never saw you get taller. Books, bottles,
and boots are packed into boxes beside your
bedroom door, and we cannot run away
this time. Your presence is a reminder of the end.
V.
Seven years stuffed into seven days.
Speeding down highways and sneaking in
late to sip on stolen Smirnoff and share
forgotten secrets or dreams. We craft a
gentle obituary for this end.
