“I used to have a brother, did you know? ” <br />“Is that so? ” <br /> <br />“Yes, my first <br />seven years, he visited us in <br />Canpásapa-wi, the month when <br />chokecherries are ripe. <br /> <br />He had round resin eyes with <br />lids languishing like sienna cowls. <br />When we were kids, he’d take me <br />on walks to admire the forest flora. <br /> <br />Voice cascading like pure rain, <br />his lips tipping upward in kinship, <br />he would point ‘Look, little wren: <br />Canpa'hu, the bitterwood stem.’ <br /> <br />One afternoon I found him napping <br />beside his favorite flowers, scattered seeds <br />outlining his profile, the scene seemingly <br />engulfed by a shrieking, dissonant peace <br /> <br />as my mother dropped my hand, and-and- <br />his grandfather lamented another <br />crippled limb. <br /> <br />11 growing seasons <br />stain my skin- <br />an astringent <br />chokecherry red <br />crushed <br />in my palms: the dye <br />will not scrub away. <br /> <br />The plant is not what poisoned him.<br /><br />Indigo Hawkins<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/half-of-whole/
