West – Randi Cramer

West

West is mad.
Pulls its face,
the leaves off the trees,
pulls the shades.
Fuck you, it says,
East gets everything first.
Lawn chairs meet pine trees.
Bastard, says West, hate.
I never wanted a brother.

West howls.
He’s leaving claw marks on the sky,
pitches birds into the sides of barns
into windows that don’t break.
He howls at the horses,
terrifying the foals
while the mares endure,
heads down,
dripping.

Later there is sniffling,
shuddering, his room dark
against the cloudy uncertainty.
North leaves the bowl outside the door,
sweetened apology.

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