Knife fight
 

Big brother’s lens strapped to my helmet
recording a video for generations to ignore.
One final take, we stumble and jerk like children’s

heads watching late-night films.
My opponent grasps his knife.
From the kitchen, it knows only butchering.

On a warm sunny day the incessant buzzing
overhead is drowned out by the whistling
screams from our mothers to come back

inside, piercing through the sky like shells.
I lay still as a deer, hot sauce leaking out,
a trick from film school coming handy.

His knife thrusts forward, I block with all my might.
We groan and wrestle, like a suburban playdate.
He sinks to the ground next to me, bedtime looming.

I hear him whisper his order above to the
cirrocumulus intercom. “I’d like to have my
Father’s endless rants with Swiss

cheese and my wife’s Glossier perfume in a wheat
field wrap with a medium Instagram post from my
Son that is estranged”.

“Sorry we’re not serving breakfast now -
would you like to try our new 5 piece crispy
chicken nuggets?”

With the last of his strength,
he pulls two Cinnabons from his belt.
Tears away like Saturn and gifts me the sugary

eucharist and takes his. I put my arm around him.
“Hopefully we’ll go viral”. I think to myself,
fulfilling my duty to my big brother.