Because My Brother Knows Why They Call Them…

When my brother left, I painted our room

blue to make a more manageable sky. But

the room couldn’t mean anything besides

an offering of endless daylight for the parade

of shadows and the solitude shadows purchase

by virtue of their existence. Besides,

I only needed something collapsible, a place

for me to collect some quiet. And my thoughts

became clouds, just like in cartoons.

Where was I? Yes, the blue became the room

and prepared a silence of its own. For all the trees.

I planted them. In pots. And the birds defecting

from the old sky we left behind were welcomed

like the rest of us. Of course, the original sky

grew jealous, wouldn’t you? Ultimatums were set,

sides chosen; each faction manufactured bigger

and bigger speakers. Volume knobs turned to 10.

Then, walls of roar. I don’t care who won. Really.

I’m not a good liar. I’ve been looking for the perfect

metaphor for sadness. All along. I apologize

for nothing. I sit with my sadness, desperate

to relieve its weight. It’s not as easy as everyone

makes it seem. I tried to cover my tracks. I only

encountered a variety of distant stares, all the fog

a morning could muster, entering with its fleeting

charm. So many rainy windows, and the calls

of birds no one ever sees. This is the end

everyone hates: the main character wakes up.

Don’t worry. This is a poem. But I’m not the speaker.

The speaker is the speaker. His brother is not

my brother leaving, being called to a different sky,

another room, everything turning blue and bedlam behind him.

Source: Poetry (February 2021)