He shot movement, November branches, but
the dusk he got was my brother; his son.
When he saw what he had done, my father
used his gun, again, to join the dead.

My mother and I stare at opposite
walls, across forests of dumb furniture.
Our home's halls are treacherous: my brother's
heart, father's mouth detonate as we pass.

Mother is constant in her mourning; through
the kitchen window she sees black trees; she
sets the board table, each night, for four,
launders Father's hunting jacket, each week.

I tend our fields. I have no father,
brother; all I survey belongs to me.