one
I saw him. In the field behind our house.
Unnameable, the way he behaved: hands
and lips traversing skin, unapologetic.
I didn't understand. I couldn't stop it.

two
This is for the lies he taught my mother
to repeat: There is nothing wrong with me.
I am just like my brother. But I tell you
now: I do not curl around men like a vine.

three
Secrets became our family; we carried
them in the ripe marrow of our bones.
How many nights I could not breathe
for knowing what he was.

four
This is for my father's face: paper crumpled
inward, a sketch changing shape. A fine art,
my father, ruined. Something had to change,
reshape the lines of our life.

five
In the barn, my fisted hands were heavy
stone pendulums, swinging with precision
through the velveted air. He did not cry
out, instead palmed my cheek — tenderness.

six
This is for me: a new sacrifice. No brother
is worth protecting such sin. Blood of my blood.
Six times, my hand makes a flower bloom
in the night from the back of Abel's soft skull.