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Watching Brandon Do Backflips off a Wall

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My little brother says you remind him of
that German mathematician
whose insanity may have been disguised as genius.
-The way you’d let the black and grey ink of your art slip into your clothing.

The inward facing holes of your cuff links were
Just big enough for my thumbs
Whenever I felt the need to be protected from
Those white winged daemons
Contorting your spine
And making you seem so very much smaller,

And you would tell me little stories,
Tales of ribbon in a blond girl’s hair,
About how your mom loves the color of winter,
About being chained to a bed,
Black dress and red lipstick,
Lightning strikes of photography,
Setting the front lawn on fire,
And pulling a bloodied fist
from the new hole in your bedroom wall.

You once asked me if I would help unbraid your hair.
The short locks twisted in a course maze I was bound to get lost in.
I only finished half, and you went the whole day like that
With broken glasses.

You fell in love with a Spanish girl from Elsalvador
She draws pictures of Jesus and unborn babies.
She scrubs the floors of a rich man
And stole pictures from his son’s bedroom.

One day when everything was almost over,
You asked if I wanted to see a trick.
You ran into a brick wall without flinching,
Made me believe that angels would take away your pills.





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