My Brother My Wound

He was calling in the bulls from the street. They came like a dark river — a blur of chest and hoof — everything moving, under, splinter — hooked their horns through the walls. Light hummed the holes like yellow jackets. My mouth was a nest torn empty. Then, he was at the table. Then, in the pig’s jaws — he was not hungry. He was stop. He was bad apple. He was choking. So I punched my fists against his stomach. Mars flew out and broke open or bloomed — how many small red eyes shut in that husk? He said,Look. Look. And they did. He said,Lift up your shirt. And I did. He slid his fork beneath my ribs — Yes, he sang.A Jesus side wound. It wouldn’t stop bleeding. He reached inside and turned on the lamp — I never knew I was also a lamp — until the light fell out of me, dripped down my thigh, flew up in me, caught in my throat like a canary. Canaries really means dogs, he said. He put on his shoes. You started this with your mouth, he pointed. Where are you going? I asked. To ride the Ferris wheel, he answered, and climbed inside me like a window.