Sibling Rivalry

The dew is resting desperately
on your coma blossoms.
A man with a cane
whistles steam through a stoma,

and at once, the aroma
of distress arrests the scene.
The sky goes green
with nervous discharge.

Of course we’re the ones
to barge in too soon
for the reckoning of final lines.
It’s what defines the both of us,

cements us in the minds
of all of those who bear witness
to our becoming. It’s true
that I’ve been strumming

these empty strings beyond
the point of harmony.
And it’s true, I’ve been disarming
the army of my memory

in a way that seems alarming.
I’m charming my way up the ranks,
and I’ll thank you
to speak no more of it.

The entire hierarchy reeks
of broken fists. Our narrative
persists against all continuity.
How is one so ill-disposed

to conflict to dispose of incongruity?
We pose a portrait on the firmament,
a portrait of hunger, red and fleshy,
and with deathly grace

we disappear into the drooling womb
that birthed us. One life,
worth its weight in exuberance.
One life, worth its weight in need.

-r. miller

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