hush hush hush stop crying stop shouting go away, darling,

i wish you would, i wish you well, i wish you love:

note to self.

Love is not something you spit down the phone through long distance phonecalls,

not the hysterical trill at the end of the line

not the way my brother gave an animal cry

like a tragic fox with its hind foot crushed by steel jaw.

for these things are dark things, sorrowful things.

they pull your ribcage inwards and make it implode the way stars die, in inverse;

they are the secrets that families whisper to ceilings at night

and in the daytime never repeat.

This household needs to learn how to breathe again,

needs to learn to hush hush stop this stop that stop hurting darling

because these nights are not easy;

are not something 1ams on roofs, phone conversations, light laughter with new boys can cure.

this vein runs deep

we are bloodbound.

tonight Love will be this: me putting on old pearls and my old lace and pretending we are a vintage postcard.

in the other room my brother sleeps

and by the hour I check to see if he still breathes.