I’ve always preferred Cain.
His angry
loneliness, his
lack of his mother’s
love, his Christian
sarcasm: “Am I
my brother’s keeper?”
asks his brother’s murderer.
Aren’t we indeed
the keepers of our dead?
Let me start again:
I prefer apples that roll
far from the tree.
Dry like a twig
is umbilical cord, tucked between legs.
How did they cut it, Cain? With
a stone?
Under Criminal Record
write, “Mother, home.”
Under Weapon
write, “Mother, home.”