NOTES ON POEM FOR MY BROTHER
by Eric E. Hyett
I have to be careful—
what I mean is
it’s the absence of him that matters,
though the light’s the same.
I wear green a lot these days
like I’m a tree in bloom.
I attract insects and leaves.
Even my socks are stitched with leaves.
If I were a tree,
I could renounce memory
and survive for centuries
on sunlight and water.
And I don’t know how to save
my brother, exactly.
It’s not for him, that poem. Not
for anyone really. So I guess it’s against—
poem against my brother—in that
he’d never read it—or is it beside—
like a cobalt dragonfly
is beside the stream—everything I am
is beside my brother.
Eric E. Hyett is a poet, linguist, and translator from Cambridge, Massachusetts. His poetry, as well as his co-translations of contemporary Japanese poet Kiriu Minashita, appear frequently in major literary journals. Recent publications include The Cincinnati Review, The Hudson Review, Barrow Street, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, and Antioch Review. Eric is presently finishing two poetry manuscripts (“Flight Risk” and “#Sexting”), a memoir, and Minashita’s first book of poetry, Sonic Peace.
Image credit: Ulf Bodin on Flickr