he straightens my edges

My brother slices through irony like a knife.

A human car crash of him and I, and the games

we play in the dark. My brothers fingers are like

Ice-capped lullabies - they smooth, and soften

the edges of my poetry, sweeten the sugary folds

of our lips, sun kissed on the roof at dawn

during summers so long they dripped like ice

on a frozen leaf. My brothers voice twinkles

across the black line of our difference in age - a

window smashed and a teddy bear in my arms,

the way our feet tangle together like sentences.

Whispered convictions. Lied to. Once upon another

time. And my tongue runs through his hairline;

parts the scalp at the center and I can feel his eyes shutter

with my fingertips. Nature has a funny way of

maturing anatomy into shapes all too forbidden,

and my hands shake like clay, molded by children

at play into drowsy teens on a cushioned couch. Lulled

into sleep by his promises that curl like rings on my fingers.

Black silver storyteller, weaver, spinner, he grins from

jaw line to nipple ring - I like to sing old love songs

when he's not looking. He likes to create things, and I

recreate them. We like to nip at closed doors like animals

baying untested. Food for thought and his hands are all

over me. My brother ignores our mistakes like everyone else.