YOU ARE MY BROTHER
I
saw you dirty, sleeping in the street,
Your
dry hide, carbon smudged ancient pottery,
Your
fingernails, black as oil pooling in the driveway,
Your
hair spiked like hawk feathers clumped by doormat mud.
I
mistook you for an asphalt ball
Tumbling
out of a truck,
Raked
then rolled into the road,
Or
dung of vegetarian animals, dark green
Sea
urchin exploding needles, grass.
What
stroke of misfortune befell you?
Has
some broken gene uncoupled your logic?
Why
are your glassy eyes transfixed by chimeras?
Did
some personal tragedy tear your psyche into two?
No
bread for a father,
No
home for a mother,
No
education for currency, unemployed,
Misfit
piece in a manufacturing assembly line,
You
wander about, a gyrating flywheel unconnected to a machine.
If
I filled your cup with coins, I myself would go begging
Because
your needs are a bottomless horn of empty.
Am
I, Cain, being called to account for your destitution?
Am
I, Dives, caressed by fine silk, thickened by choice meats?
I
tell myself I will live simply,
Giving
to you beyond the needs of my family,
Working
to create a better society in which the poor
Are
less destitute and the destitute are less.
See,
my heart is a pocket fraying holes.
Tracked
by an accusatory finger,
I
want to look away but I cannot—
You
are my brother.
Originally
published in New Asian Writing (May
7, 2015)
 |
| A homeless man |
