My Brother Was a Bomb

I surveil his ignition hands,

puckered by bloodline, touch

the memories steep with pain:

when he dunked my head

between swamp jaws,

tucked me into

a Boston Crab in the hotel pool,

drowned himself

in gasoline and struck

a match. And I try to picture

that grinning summer

we jumped

like mullet in and out

of hose-filled barrels,

the hot pavement hissing

as water slapped

in escape. I swam then

with a time bomb, and

called him bubby

because I couldn’t pronounce

brother.

 

Featured on Selcouth Station

leave a comment

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *