My Brother My Wound

He was calling in the bulls from the street.

They came like a dark river — 

a blur of chest and hoof — 

everything moving, under, splinter — hooked

their horns through the walls. Light hummed

the holes like yellow jackets. My mouth

was a nest torn empty.

Then, he was at the table.

Then, in the pig’s jaws — 

he was not hungry. He was stop.

He was bad apple. He was choking.

So I punched my fists against his stomach.

Mars flew out

and broke open or bloomed — 

how many small red eyes shut in that husk?

He said, Look. Look. And they did.

He said, Lift up your shirt. And I did.

He slid his fork beneath my ribs — 

Yes, he sang. A Jesus side wound.

It wouldn’t stop bleeding.

He reached inside

and turned on the lamp — 

I never knew I was also a lamp — until the light

fell out of me, dripped down my thigh, flew up in me,

caught in my throat like a canary.

Canaries really means dogs, he said.

He put on his shoes.

You started this with your mouth, he pointed.

Where are you going? I asked.

To ride the Ferris wheel, he answered,

and climbed inside me like a window.