Last night, the buzzards and I brokered
a deal: if I spit out all my teeth, they will stop
picking at the scar tissue on my brother’s wrists. Just a bad
dream, my mother murmurs over toast. Only God can raise
the dead. A different morning, we might have discussed
which version of my brother’s body would slam
the screen door on judgement day,
cut across the back porch humming
stamp two boots on the ratted
mat, lean the split-wood
against its lacquered cousin.
Today, the buzzards grace
the rafters. Excavate a basilica
of mourning. Birds speak in tongues.
Babble half-tones. I want to hear
apocalypse bubbling on a stove-top.
Know for sure what will be in the pot
when my brother walks through the kitchen wall —
maybe teeth boiled down to
simple sugars, miracles unscathed.