for my brother
I can't account
for the richness of my life.
Gardens filled with flowers--
bee balm rising five feet tall,
phlox and primrose, peonies,
bleeding heart, cosmos--more
than I can name.
My house filled with the music of voices--
husband, children, laughter,
Mozart on piano, Goodman on clarinet,
Coltrane on sax--more sounds
than I need. I am filled
with movement of body and mind.
And yet, I cannot help looking at you,
your eyes intent on the empty space
before you, whiskers peppered white,
gray hair curling on your collar,
and then I must speak,
risk the head-on collision
with your eyes
where I see myself,
crouched in the corner of your brain,
cradling your stolen riches.
Copyright 1997, Carolyn Locke
Carolyn Locke received her M.F.A. in creative writing from Goddard College in February 1996.
She has previously been published in Potato Eyes, Echoes, The Café Review, and Kennebec. She
teaches high school English in Maine where she makes her home.