Poem of the Week |34| I am twelve

By Trish Delaney Last updated Sep 30, 2015

I am Twelve

My brother is nineteen with pincushions of cannulas
instead of hands, half his head shaved, red-ridged
and stitched tight like a baseball.

I chew highland toffees fidgeting with the red
plaid wax wrappers, inventing a game where my jaws
keep time with the beeps.

Mother daubs wet cotton on his lips, it melts like candyfloss.
She drinks gin in the ward toilet and
keeps polo mints in her bag.

She said to leave Father be, he sits by the bed, no movement,
no jigging since the sedative; slack
like a broken elastic band.

My brother is forty now and spends his time watering his trees.
His right arm lifeless by his side like a dead man hanging
from the gallows and just like a dead man
he also cannot speak