Brother

In a caravan, I am always nervous with my father behind me. Even navigating off pavement, I worry every slight turn of the wheel, wonder if I rode the brakes a bit too long. I fear he will steer from behind and measure my inadequate skills. Afraid he will realize I'm not as large as I appear to be. That I am not the first-born son he'd hoped for.

My brother, named for him, barely shares this kind of blood. Urban dweller, he slices ink into his skin to define his boundary lines. Etches my name with a clowns face, outlines my father's with hammers and fish hooks, never fills in the details, forgets to add color. A different sort of soldier, never enlisted, yet to be drafted. He's AWOL and no one knows it, no one seems to care. My baby brother who begged for kisses I would not bestow. Always beats his enemies to the punch. He spends his down time pressing needles into flesh, sucking slow-moving smoke that my child's mind sees as graceful dragons. This mind waits for them to dissipate into the skies, for everything to become clear to him.

Love on my sleeve, I nestle caution in the crook of my arm, steer clear of his fight, I never trust the self-governing. Keeping my eyes on the road, holding my breathe to maintain a constant path, so that my father might nod and say, "Yes".