I took a break for a number of days and rested my mind. This morning, around 5:00, I awoke with the beginning of a poem that kept me up until I completed it.
Why? I do not know.
My brother’s eyes were black
And body strong.
He could go through fire, my brother,
Like Tamerlane, he said,
Riding across the steppes of America.
You had to see him making the bombs
Putting them together one by one,
Teaching me how to hold a gun,
To be a man.
Are there angels?
I sometimes thought my brother was god on earth,
A handsome, fierce god, a righteous one
So strong, he might crush me with a glance,
Embrace me and squeeze me like an orange,
Pierce me by the arrows of his eyes.
His life was pure, no fat upon his body
Untouched by flaming waters,
His spirit conquered all.
He could walk through conflagrations.
He made the people weep.
Have you wrestled with a god?
Have you touched the skin of might?
Had his arms wrapped about you so you could not move?
Felt the warmth of his breath on your face
As he lifted you off the ground like a child–a doll–
And known that love, that ecstasy?
Nothing was impenetrable for him.
Nothing could not be done.
Have you watched him build the bombs?
Have you watched him laugh?
His joy was like the cosmos.
His spirit was my king.
He was a soldier of God, he said,
But I knew he was a god.
And I killed him.