he’s pomegranate juice and polished lightbulbs,
surprisingly accurate pencil drawings,
piano phrases over and over and over
“sorry” and “I’m sorry” and
pleas that are too desperate to be honey-covered
eyes same as our mother’s; hair, too
he got all of her and I got all of our father

he’s the same books, same songs
grass stains and mud stains and torn shoes
math equations he calls super easy but gets wrong
almonds; cucumber and tomato salad
laughter for everything and nothing at all
he let me braid the front of his hair some days ago
started crying three minutes in, but

I’ve always wanted wings
they’d suit him better