WERE I TO WAKE
In my memory lives a vast oak
hanging one low, peeled branch— sticking out like a sore thumb
upon which a thrill seeker once tied a muddled rope swing.
My brother who is not my brother
but an old friend tethered at the soul
skips rocks across the bank of the Dead River.
We rode our bikes there after class,
his a rusted Schwinn and mine
a no brand hand-me-down.
There is an innocence in not thinking twice
about whether a thrown stone
might thrash a friend cascading from above.
Some time has passed now
and we haven’t talked in a way that matters
for too long a while.
Were I to wake on this vacant night
it would surely be that I dreamt of the way
two stones never skip the same.