Amanda Chiado - Poetry
by Amanda Chiado
When my parents say we should make gravy
I have to find my brother like a foreigner
Searches for mushrooms in a wasteland.
I trip rock by rock through the quarry.
My brother sits at the table, leather jacket on
And we hover like pieces of chess. He might run
But I get home without being clawed. He might
Run so my mother keeps a tear in her eye,
A weapon always laying in wait in a heart
Upstairs. All of us speak so much of weather
We might shift the winds with our small talk
For Dorothy and all of us that say go home.
Holding my brother after all those mashed
Potatoes makes me hate how much a body fails.
My mother gives birth to miniature storms, cries
Silvery bullets. My father, snores to a crime show.
My brother kisses his hand too long. I say fly.
My brother walks up the street into the limelight
In some angelic goodbye, we send him off with eyes
Because when someone loves you, they watch you go.