I fear masked men. Cloaked

cheeks, mouth hidden, eyes peering.

Ski mask or wrapped scarf, I tremble, my gut drops.

Brother’s murderers wore night

as a cloak. Collars turned up. Hats cast down into the dark

of eyes.

Recite the night.

I rouse Brother from sleep.

He exits the blue door almost naked,

except for boxers and slippers.

There are so many shadows here.

At first, Rain mutes danger. I wear a sloppy sweatshirt,

brain and instincts dull from sleep and Rain’s steady rhythm.

I enter this memory hoping for a clue, some

new understanding or to relive Last Moment with Brother–

Last Moment, whole.

But then there is Bullet. Then there is fear.

Explain–the ways it electrifies my tongue. I slip in and out.

I lick fear, spilling from my mouth into a howl when a

man on bus slips on ski mask.

He is not right. He stares and slinks. His grace uneases me.

I must grip something.

Learn this guilt. Days I am Lost Cause.

My body a burden I do not want.

Sometimes I want to tell everyone

who will listen that those men killed a part of me too.

They turned me jukebox,

I only know one song;

a haunted tune of the hunted.

My body does what it does. I need this. To understand

how I confuse Past and Present. I go searching the library

for answers. But Bullet only brings questions.

Living with the Unanswerable and Missing;

I learn joy after Bullet.

Cracking open. Buzzing salty with

indulgence. A brightness almost forgotten.

I stir it with the tip of a finger,

it teaches me to order a man to his knees.

Find the command in my voice.

There’s a strength here. I wear it like new skin.

We both like it. In these moments fear disappears.

Don’t tell me why.

Don’t pathologize this unexpected

pleasure.