Brother was a pilot

Brother was a pilot

In the yard

that year we played,

we danced like patriots until the

afternoon our

strings and fingers stopped,

our voices caught,

we grew ashamed of

our own steps

even as we stared.

Brother came home

with one leg

missing—a flash in his eye

like the afterimage of a wing clipped.

New songs descended

among us, or perhaps they rose

up from the soil where he planted

his crutch,

hymns both eternal and practical

for each of our waking and

sleeping moments

taking up residence on the

bitter tips

but never quite leaving

our tongues:

To whom do we owe,

this gracious honor of loss?

What place is there

that grows legs for grounded brothers?