My Brother’s Face
Anaïs Deal-Márquez
In the dream, my brother has my hair in his mouth. Some days I wonder what nightmares he would run from,
if basements would scare him, if sleep paralysis would land the same way on his chest as it does on mine,
what stories the cicadas would tell him at night and if rancheras would make him cry. I wonder what the timbre of his laugh
would bring to our breath to the pace of a room on a Sunday morning. Secrets have a way
of bubbling to the top of rainwater, or our imagination. My tongue holds questions I can’t ask about death.