Dear Brother, Dominique Aguilera

Remember when we were kids,

and you volunteered

to hold the circus showgirl’s torch

as she swallowed fire

and you set her aflame?


Since you’ve left, mom’s

tear and mascara trails collide,

forming a scattered map of the floor,

one without your location.


Dad thinks you’re lagging, surviving

somewhere with hatchets and matches,

sipping kelp root soup.

I remember you best at summer time,

at our beach, full of stars

setting out into the sky like Chinese lanterns,

and your guitar with its crumbled notes.


And now your lavender soap

I left on the porch for you

has swollen with mold

and no longer foams.

Found in Volume XIV (2015-2016)

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