little brother//youngest son

little brother//youngest son


swathed in sheets in the hospital bed, a skinny
silkworm of a boy

in a cocoon of restless lethargy and the
gentle murmurings of pain

which come to him even in sleep- he dreams
of agony like a quiet groping hand

which tugs on his elbow in the crowd, whispering
-do you know me?- as if he is the only one

who hears. we are quite prepared to believe
that he is the only one who feels pain

in the whole hospital; have no sorrow
or sympathy to share and cannot bear to see

these other children, all nothing
but chalkdust smears on the pillows

which offer no comfort, casting shadows
they have not earned.

a ward full of half-sketched pastel faeries with
waxen skin worn buttery; melting into purplish blooms

where quiet silken needles slide through
to leave wine stains, kiss marks, the ghosts of adulthood

promised but not delivered. -not yet-, we say,
-not yet-. when we look at our fragile

sanatorium prince lying
with a hard pea of discomfort under his mattress

which keeps him from dreaming, are we devastated by
his sickness or our own private grief? we see

our own longing for release
from suffering’s dull purgatory

refracted through this x-ray child,
flimsy film-translucent, his possible futures

paraded for us in the light which
collects like chilly dew on his bones.

the long days dissolve into a dizzy suspension
of disbelief. in the wards we hurry past we spot

beached mermaids, stick figures, a man of tin
and one of straw. we are sustained

by chicken drumsticks from the nearest supermarket
and coffee as watery as the sun

making a soundless desperate gasp
through the lace curtains in his cubicle where we keep watch

on his sternum- protruding sharply where his heart
holds a dagger towards us and says

-you could have done more-.
we cry and cannot say why. cannot say

-we do not remember what life was like
when you were well-.