slow, unmovable pressure of mercy
like comic raincloud, tears of mother;
we are entitled to nothing,
my inconsolable brother.
I am guilty, too, and not just because
I am two years older
and tempted by the pride
of failure.

the mirror grips a self-made orphan
with crumbs in his pockets
that he resents to share,
hoarded like the spoils of war.

I want us to turn into yeast
and be mixed into bread.
We can be broken and dipped
at the same table.
we can know the bond of blood,
poured into the same cup
and drunk until slurring eyes
shut and sleep forever.