His mouth open and utterly loved,

trees struck with sunshine, propeller, and foothills

 

fixed with a sibling smile. Scenery licks its wounds

restoring splendor to the crash site.

 

I want to capture his face in a portrait

but my paint’s too severe

 

to get the right distress from my brother’s expression.

It takes too long to dry.

 

So I’m back with landscapes, my brother flat

against grass, eyes rolled, accompanied by trees.

 

I listen for the fuselage singing as land

empties leftovers across the painting.

 

When I close my eyes I see him lifted

from the site, air moist with helicopters,

 

a canvas wet with his face. No shade

will wake him. With eyes open,

 

we all have a crash site of our own:

a body trapped in steel and oak.

 

My brother hides under each layer of paint.

his cuts at my fingertips.

 

There’s nothing wrong with the color of elm,

their silhouettes edge what I can’t see,

 

his profile slipping away. I must hurry

brushes with goddammit to open his gorgeous chest,

 

a torn canyon with so much sky to choose from,

vast enough for grief to go when it finally leaves.