SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 30

My brother pretends he doesn’t care.

On the rare evening we are in the same room at the same time

no one but us

I try to talk to him while he nukes pizza rolls.

How’s school, David?

Any teachers you like

Any girls

Any boys, I might whisper.

I feel like a third parent

or a distant aunt

asking stale questions

to elicit any response

besides the stiff shrug.

He has eyes only

for pizza rolls.

Watching him in the kitchen

under the dim glare of three

bulbs, the rest burnt out and unreplaced,

I stare at his acne

the beginnings of a beard

the hollows under his eyes.

He’s always been skinny but now

he looks like an opened envelope:

sharp corners and something removed

from inside, something important maybe—

not a bill but a certificate, a notice

that something critical has taken place

and I didn’t get to it before

it headed for the shredder.