I’m hiding from the stars tonight. I’ve pulled
every blind and turned off
all the lights but one, which I’ve named after you,
which I can see flooding the dark
hallway of my high school when I open the locker
with your name on it, the only one
left, the universe flooding out
onto the floor. In all the pictures
I’ve seen of my older brother
he is never wearing a tuxedo. But I have one snapshot, bent
at the edges, of my twin and me
on a boat, on prom night, happy, already a little drunk.
I carry this picture whenever I fly
so I can look at it right before the crash, below the screams
and the smell of urine, I can look into his eyes
and know who I am. All night I’ve been worrying
about money and cancer and the tooth
I have to get pulled out before it poisons me. I can smell
the lemon I cut earlier for the carrots and fish. I don’t know
what to do with myself. I’ve written the word Choose
on a piece of paper and taped it to a knife. Then I peeled it off
and taped it to a book about Yesenin. Finally
I took it and stuck it on the screen
of my computer where there is a picture of Erika wearing the silver
necklace I bought her. Outside a dog is sitting in the yard
looking up at the porch. Every once in a while
it wags its tail and whines, then it’s quiet, and then it begins to growl.