To the South

my brother never returned for his bicycle
but left it in my care,
and it should be him on this pale green
masterpiece of metal, riding by in
motion at its best,
windy hair covering his freckles
as if they were suddenly shy--
not me with my map of the neighborhood
colored in crayon and crumpled
in my left hand--
it's hard to steer with only the right
but what if i lose my way?

(she shaded her eyes at your coming,
so aware,
apron snapping, mouth considering
a call, fingers at a loose salute.)

it's only me, ma,
but no one blames you for hope.
after dinner, when i refused my plate
and said i hate him, you crawled
to my bed and said we'd send prayers--
that even the dead were praying for him,
we can never stop.
our palms that meet
echo his heartbeat--
maybe he'd hear and come home
through the shadow of a white flag
raised high above red arms--
they'd just let him go
back into the arms of the mother,
to lean over me and twist my ear,
to comb black knots from my hair, and
make mud castles at noon.

The wheels tick away
seconds of the summer
at my ankles.
i ride with a storm like a memory
blowing at my back.