Learning to Spell
I write your name in felt letters, in plastic magnets, in crayon colours, in macaroni, in gold spray paint. Brother, I write your name in sand and shells, and you are eliminated from the shore. Brother, I write your name in icing on a birthday cake, in loops and rosettes, and you are devoured. Brother, I write your name in smoke, in skywriting, your epitaph under the bark of a birch tree, the underside of forest fungus, traced in frost on the car window. I write your name in dust at the back of my closet, backwards in suede, front- wards in sugar, in talcum powder, in butterfly pollen. I shake for the spelling of you. I dam the tide with my body for you. I sit in trees like a butterfly for you, and cakes bloom spores, and you are grown over. In forests and closets you are dusted. Brother, protecting your name, I write you in subcutaneous ink, in blood, in the steambreath on the mirror, in a poem you will never, ever read.