My Brother’s Keeper

He doesn't talk about it
He won't tell me what happened… and I don't expect him to

But I can see it in his eyes

I can feel the way he disappears without having to walk out of the room

I can sense his panic at the sound of fireworks and loud thunderous bangs

Or hear how his dreams release a painful song of trauma and loss

 

He cleans his rifles as if he were delicately writing his signature
It's personal.. Intimate.. Therapeutically familiar

I've secretly counted how many times he's cleaned them,
mindlessly forgetting to wash the black polish from his anxious hands

 

When he does talk, he tells stories of his brothers
and remembers to mention the ones who have fallen…
I wonder if he's noticed his sister observing him,
how she's discovered that his soul, unlike his brothers, was not fallen but rather taken. 

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
Our world

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