A term for when a telescope is first used

You peer at your brother from the wrong end,

a kind of consciousness that makes him appear

less of a sibling, the friend he wants to be.

Dark surrounds that light, a swallowing.

You have to look into that light, hardly worth

the effort, it fuzzies. You swing the telescope

and there he is again, crying for milk. Pick up,

pick up. He’s a room away, then the focus

is smeared, a tragedy-in-the-making, adult want

turned to scorn, something left off,

the repair’s ragged dark and not forgotten.

Here’s a cap for the instrument, here’s

the math that goes with the lens when it’s ground

to determines the size of that cap. Capsizing is rare

in the birth order of one to the other,

but the brain has its wonts. You are alone

in the universe, except for all those other stars.

Don’t be afraid–open your eyes—he’s where it hurts.