To me,
the dandelions will always be sprouting
wings and growing toward
the heavens along the chalky-white of the
fence out back,
and my brother will always arrive
on the scene, choking
the dandelions from their stems and
trailing green stalks homeward.
His scuffed sneakers will always lead him
astray, ignoring the calls of our mother
inside to dinner, to investigate
and meander through the tall
grasses of the deathly quiet lot.
Parting stalk after stalk and
still journeying further,
his innocent eyes will scan
the area and he’ll always spot my
form, lifeless and beaten, flattening
a few hundred blades -
splayed earthward in my own
wind-blown pinwheel.
Upon careful
examination, it will always be
concluded that my life was not
taken by smashing or slashing,
but by choking the very breath
from me as I journeyed out that day -
just like the last, just like always -
to locate my brother amidst
the silence of the sea of grass.