Brothers

with large fields of wheat

separated by water

They come to contention

Not with wheat nor water

but for wheat not water

and the diplomacy of water

Wheat is without blood

men will guard fields with blood

and guard water with cannon fire

Clichés on bonfire

turning anew forever.

Bread is like love

what have they not been called

Ok you can go

on the water

but without wheat

You will see,

You remember box tvs? 

The tvs that had a big old lady butt?

So basically I had one of those 

in my room on a tiny foldable table.

My brother had a dog, I think her name

was Diamond but I’m honestly not sure. 

Anyways, Diamond was a baby 

and wasn’t potty trained yet.

One day after cleaning up her piss

I decided to put paper towels 

I was taught to trace my worth through percentages, 

as if blood were a ledger that could balance itself clean. 

They handed me maps drawn in ash and inked in contradiction, 

told me to stand still inside the borders of someone else’s hunger 

and call it history. 

So I did what children do with impossible math— 

I tried to become the answer. 

I learned that my bones are not neutral ground. 

They remember treaties signed with trembling hands, 

A picnic basket waits in the shade,

its woven ribs a cradle made

for summer's hush, for meadow air,

for quiet hearts who wander there.

It waits below the willow tree,

as if to say, "Come sit with me,

unpack your worries, drop your load,

let laughter spill across the road."

Inside, the clink of jars and spoons,

a folded cloth, the scent of June,

and something soft, an old-time grace,

that shows the pulse of our special place.

It isn't just a meal it keeps,