the warm dark

we walk the blackened road

while sounds in the jungle call to us

in their strange night language

( clack and croak

clatter and

murmur and sing

sounds we don’t know, and it’s the

not-knowing that soothes.

we meander, only stars

lighting our way, white-yellow glimmer of

orion and the milky way

vast wheel of countless stars so near our own.

i feel closest to you here, this warm dark

familiar in our childhood but now

where i live so far north

as unknown as these sounds in the night.

( when it’s warm, there’s no dark

when dark, no warmth.

my skirt swings soft against

bare legs, wavering quiet—

with sight shut low the other senses rise.

i miss this, standing idly gazing up

only barely hoping for a shooting star.

i can’t tell anyone, not the least our grieving mother,

that i feel closer to you now than when you were alive.

that in death, my brother, you walk with me,

the breeze your hand

and we are ten and eight, gathering neighbors

for a game of kick the can—the scuffling feet,

scurrying to hide, the count, the call, the search.

never

was i afraid when you were

somewhere in that dark.

never

did i give up my hiding spot.

it was you gave me courage to make that dash for the can,

you when our mother refused to see me.

( night walks the times

i felt safe near her.

by your life,

your own bright dash to it—

little brother my star.