This is firecracker
fuse out, of the mouth
of a mostly-dead fish,
scooped from the bait bin
where our grandpa
would keep a few—
fireworks in the hands
of too young boys
with too much time
and not enough teaching.
This is balled fist bust
in face of younger brother
for little more than frustration,
pull back the moment
when the fist
gives way to blood
against snow
and a hollowing wind
through the gut.
This is knowing eyebrow
raised in recognition
of palm through the drywall
during the week spent
weening out the New Year.
This is stood staring
over the sparkings
of a lemon-lemon-yellow lighter,
a blaze of rage roaring behind
our irises choosing anger
over the world.
This is watching ourselves make
the same mistakes
as we are undone
in the hands
of the men
who made us.a
