|photo courtesy of books, paper, scissors|
When we were younger, my brother Kyle and I would climb the trees in our neighbors' yards. Always right behind me and my backpack filled with adventure "essentials," Kyle was my partner and #1 follower. This photo reminded me of him and I, and of the poem I wrote about one of our tree-climbing adventures from a poetry class in college. Happy birthday, Kyle. I love you.
They’re cutting down the tree today,
the one I climbed to the very top.
You followed me but lost your footing,
I watched as you hit
like a wet rag. How memories’ coils smolder:
You. Face down. Petrous, dry earth. Surrendered
in a bowl of dust
I ran home, red alarm rising
rendered you dead to mom. When
we went back you were pale and shaking
“Miracle,” said mom
and my mouth swallowed the word
and never forgot the taste of relief:
stoked in the throat, cooled by splashes
of wet truth.