the writing on left ear’s back (i hold the title of your little brother)

this is the poem i wrote on your back
across the angles where your wings belong:

i hold the title of your little brother
as fluid gems between my fingers,
slipping over, under, undulating
(not absorbed, i am too afraid of permanence)

it tickles a little sometimes and makes me giggle
and i feel like a child sitting beside you,
learning the mysteries of language
the vagaries of verse while i peek through the folds
of whatever funny clothing you’re wearing today.

i like your hats best.

i hold the title of your little brother
in my hands in the morning just before i start the day,
press it against my cheek to feel its warmth–
if i didn’t dislike them so much i’d compare it
to caressing a baby bird–
and then i tuck it into a heart-pocket
where it pulses all day,
reminding me that i love and am loved.

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