by Susan B.A. Somers-Willett

Until there is something spoken there,
the ear appears meaningless, a white
tooled shell. But the smiling
face is delicate, your finger
on his picture is touch, slip
away, like stepping a wet

stone. Hero. If you could say it again,
his name would be
awful, the hardest to remember
at parties. It's hard sometimes, you know,
to look at him the way you do,
in the best graces:

school photo, the fat baby
industriously at play, or inconsequential
against the backdrop of Arizona.
That sky. Standing
between two houses, head cocked
to the left as he saw in a film, not shot

like in that dream you had,
scalp and bone flapping
a botched mouth.
You remember nothing

from that day but the cat
got out and the toilet
kept sighing. He stepped out
to McDonald's, some other country,
and never returned. It's not supposed to be
like this you think you said --

he was always the dutiful one,
quietly came between his brothers' conflicts
and buried the cat's kill in the yard.
No ordinary creature
could expect his death
sooner than your own
right foot would turn left.
You wish him thin,

out of existence, the weakest
archetype in your good story.
But then, oh --

to dip him headfast in that river,
make him call your name