what I meant to say
That letter to my brother, swinging my fists. There are so many ways to say
I'm angry, so many disappointed narratives to lift out of the tar, hold up
like dinosaur bones. The same old show-and-tell. "See?" I flay
the page with invectives, run the long receipt of examples as if he might have
forgotten. He hasn't forgotten. My reminders are tired engines crawling toward
nowhere. The journey's turned into a moonscape with no visible horizon,
and I, its depleted but still-demanding passenger. Days later, and no word
back, and this silence rends another tear in our broken story. And yet I'm insisting,
as if another round will rouse what's died when I need to bury it for good.
The fight's not worth the wounds it leaves. I'd hug him if I could.