To You, To Your Brother T. G. Caston
A Corpse is a Corpse Is a Corpse. Until it is embalmed, left waxy by the process made to preserve you, after the world has torn your body to shreds. Like a lamb thrown to lions. Your eyes: closed. Your suit: pressed. Your lips: sewn shut, as if to prevent you from screaming to this room of mourning children “Live! I know a pain that ends in darkness. I have felt the worlds prick and then its quick release. I have felt the tears of my Father glide gently down my bare shoulder and was helpless to dry them.� The school will be quiet the day after. Students will drift, like petals from dogwood trees. White. Weightless. Shell shocked from a war they did not know they were fighting. Your name will not be mentioned, except in hushed tones at cafeteria tables and will always be preceded by a hesitation, as if bleeding has turned your name into a dangerous incantation. Your brother will not be seen, but will not be marked absent.
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