He would have to settle for an unmarked grave, if you could call it that, and his bleached white bones, stripped clean by wild dogs in a dry riverbed on the outskirts of Kabul, not unlike the one he ... [+]
After school my brother slinks
into the blue shade of the pines.
Every year it seems, he slips
and falls on the ice: bruised
kneecaps, scrapes on his palms,
the wind knocked clean out of him.
He slips but is slow to help himself
back up. He finally stands—
a tall willow bending toward
a frozen pond.
He thinks of the bottom of the lake,
and how it's dark, and whether or not
there are dozens of fish down there,
languid silver or white.
These fish have no breath, only lidless eyes
that look side to side. They don't mind
the icy layer between their realm
and the sun.
He skates over them every year.
And every year he wonders
if they're real, or just figments
of metallic fish
swimming behind his eyes, as they move
side to side, as he skates over the ice.