Jeffrey Morgan

We love our bodies for their factory qualities,

their two different kinds of beauty: alone

and beside someone.

We love how they texture the dark. If we don’t move

for a very long time, we begin to wonder

from where we are disappearing.

On the day my brother inherits me,

there is a double rainbow, which is maybe God’s

way of saying I know yesterday

your brother had his first seizure in six months

because I know everything.

Maybe it’s His way of gift wrapping

some double parenthetical

in the never-ending explanation of love.

Between me and my brother

there is a door. He is on one side

playing Shostakovich. I am on the other,

waiting for a pause

the size of my body I can step through.

When was it even raining?

What are the rules? I shake

his many expensive pills

in their many cheap brown bottles.

I shake the empties to make sure

there are still that many kinds of nothing.

What comes after an archipelago.

What we call silence,

even though it’s really just less sound.

My breath cooling as it passes

along the wet of my throat. A note

held so long it begins to fray.

What we don’t say when beauty is too obvious.

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