brisk.

Brisk is the way that he speaks
shouts the name of his father (brother?)
the quickness of his step that can't be changed
whether we are all alive and happy
or whether we are all dead and cold;

bitter.

Bitter is the taste on my tongue
acrid, whetted, acute, colored like ash
"¿por qué no puedes escuchar?"
I am listening, I want to tell him
but he's too far gone to know what I mean;

carrying.

Carrying him, singing his own songs
what does it matter if they are his or mine?
when red and white are the colors of him.
"por favor, cántame, por favor"
yes, hermano de mi corazón, I will;

heavy.

Heavy is how he feels in my hands
feeling the weight of him, crimson pouring across us both
dragging him closer to my finish and his home
The face of his father greets me
his eyes, so blue, so like his son's;

august.

August is the sound of his voice
"gracias, mi hija."
But I am only returning what is his.
when I turn to leave I am without the burden of him
and yet warm, scarlet stains are all I can touch;

faith.

Faith is the last word that echoes
in the empty spaces grown between us
"también lo quería para ti."
It's okay, I tell him; some of it is for you
and you alone, and your brother, your father

and the light that he holds, yellow, red, white, the colors of me, the colors of him, in his steady hands.