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Forfeit
by Binne Pasquier
My brother is somehow glad
that his wife has left
though he occasionally weeps and doesn’t eat much.
Now I have time
he says
to work on my art
take walks with the dog
sit zazen.
Better to get it over now
before death happens by.
It’s all illusion anyway
that we can be with another
that anything lasts here on earth.
He has taken me into the Northwestern woods.
The truck is pulled off the dirt road
the new dog held tight on its leash
the marijuana burns my throat.
After he says that if he chooses to die
it’s not a reflection on me
I get a sickening stoney rush.
The summer green begins to swirl.
He makes me a bed on the weeds
and I look up at pine-drawn sky patches
close my eyes
and picture him gone.
My brother’s voice is deep and loamy
a well-worked claim to authority and due.
Professorial, Dictatorial, Oracle voice
whether speaking of neighbors or dinner
sorrow or God’s kharmic riff.
Years ago I told myself
that Confucius would say
submit to the elder’s attempt
so if he tells me now
in his rich-timbred logic
how can I grab him
shake his thinned-down frame
and scream into his face
NO
You can’t leave
Yes yes
Impermanence
Yes
removal of pain
no fear left in not giving
no heart to sit raw
Yes
you will dwindle
you will ache
walk bored by the bay
not know what to draw
taste your mouth bleeding
but you gone
leaves only one orphan
of this weary line.
It takes one with your blood
to retell the myth
that we are not born alone
but instead
into a unit
that is home.