Rebecca Zweig

Bloodletting

Brother, each time you go to war
I want to fuck your stereo

I want to break your wife
I want to puncture your uniform

of teeth
and drain its hours

clean. Tell me
how blind the desert night moves

on its fringe of ethics, each
road’s motives held in pause. Tell me again

how we weren’t ruined
by waiting. Take a tour

of our mother, hands
gripping the counter

bent over the sink. A hope
to disprove we ever bloomed

in the shadow of her brain.