We love our bodies for their factory qualities,
their two different kinds of beauty: alone
and beside someone.
We love how they texture the dark. If we don’t move
for a very long time, we begin to wonder
from where we are disappearing.
On the day my brother inherits me,
there is a double rainbow, which is maybe God’s
way of saying I know yesterday
your brother had his first seizure in six months
because I know everything.
Maybe it’s His way of gift wrapping
some double parenthetical
in the never ending explanation of love.
Between me and my brother
there is a door. He is on one side
playing Shostakovich. I am on the other,
waiting for a pause
the size of my body I can step through.
When was it even raining?
What are the rules? You can shake
his many expensive pills
in their many cheap brown bottles
like the guy in the band who plays maracas,
who is easily replaced, who smiles
a little too enthusiastically.