To My Brother, Who Died at Seventeen - R.N. Penmer

I dream that we sit

on the lip of a suburban hill,

watching the valley fill with molten gold,

a honeymelon sunrise.

under the gilted tarpaulin of horizons, you are there

beside me, crushing the petals of a chrysanthemum

between thumb and forefinger, talking

about a car you want to buy, to get from one

axis, one planetary nebula

to another

a car fated

to lie, charred, at the foot of a hill

after tumbling off a mountain road in the late

afternoon, with christina mayhew in the back seat,

two lives evaporating into the evening air

you talk about christina now – a story i can no longer remember,

although I am reminded of

autumn flowers with their heads plucked off, and twilight,

and stars set against a rim of gold.

it is a funny story, so I laugh. I dream that I laugh

so hard that tears jab the behinds of my eyes.

and I raise my laughter aloft, high

upon the altar of my bronze tabernacle

so the bitter idols of myrrh will witness

the silver-clear threads of my final expiation

then I lift my hand to brush against your jacket,

only to see you disintegrate

into a million droplets of amber.

even in a dream I know

that I am not my brother’s keeper.