Trinity
My brother is an artist,
though I am not sure he remembers.
I picture him drawing in charcoal years ago:
My brother is an artist,
though I am not sure he remembers.
I picture him drawing in charcoal years ago:
strong, thick lines to delineate an image,
which he then rubbed off,
black fingers and muddled page,
to create the contours
of an actual, breathing body.
It is a thing I will never understand,
this movement of dust into flesh.
And it is not what I do with words.
I turn flesh into dust,
and I rearrange the grains
until they speak some strange new word.
He resurrected,
I deconstructed.
That was always our way.
And now you, walking back,
breathing your warmth into what was last
and will be.
I am not sure which gesture it is.
What was it I imagined otherwise?
Likely some idea,
immaculate at its sharp edges.
immaculate at its sharp edges.
Creator's intent,
Sustainer's history.
And at the apex,
this wound, not healable,
and not meant to be.
