Johnny or Bobby

Little brothers should be named Johnny
or Bobby or something that shows they are small
but will one day be men.

I keep dreaming of swallowing my brother’s
eyes, spooning them gently from beneath his lashes, taking
them into my throat
too light to be dealt the job of looking at things so hard
to see

except this is not a scene of violence
he does not remember ever having his eyes
and when I take his teeth – not all at once
but singularly,
as a little girl pulls petals from the pimpled center
of a daisy, he forgets those, too.

The little girl with her toes
dusted in pollen, a gaze too big for ten years
asks her blooming oracle about the nature of things.

the flower is silent.
my brother asks why it doesn’t answer
his eyes revolve like planets behind my tonsils,
his teeth clink guiltily against a pocket of pennies and pop-tabs,
I tell him it is just the nature of daisies.

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