The Two Brothers
And you had two brothers,
stood on sentry like those lions
made from sandstone that never
look like lions. The one had lived
in Rome or Turin, maybe Madrid,
dealing art, or was he in electronics?
His skin just spoke of Wales
like he’d hidden in a farmhouse
while a war ravaged along
the native land, tucked behind
a dry stone wall in cloth cap
and waist coat trying not
to cough into the dirt.
His eyes were harsh, curious
but cowardly, he would have
been a shadow-dweller
had he made it to the senate.
The other brother, I swear,
was subject to some syndrome;
his gaze was other-worldly
and all he seemed to speak of
was dead ‘B’ movie actors,
and they were speeches,
not mere murmurs,
strong and wiry from his
German lips, and often
left a room cold in confusion
with the names of Whit Bissell
or Aldo Ray skating reborn
upon the burdened air. He
owned a postcard of Fay Spain
and the autograph of Sonny Tufts
in a frame, on his desk –
a desk that seemed to serve
only as a mantle to this syndrome
sickened sanctuary. You called
them brothers but I’m sure
that they were hired to take
up places in my memory I
had hoped would be reserved
for those I liked.
to be published in Ugly Tree magazine Feb 2007