Held hard in the right hand,
I walk through the woods
but cannot find the Way.
The net between the Beyond
did not catch my step-brother
that night in 2009 when he
called to me in sleep voice,
“This is how I died.”
The stories flit like
shadows in your brown
bear eyes. Your bear
moves with graceful
bulk in dark corners
and carries secrets.
I try to follow, but
the threads will not
connect through our
open, frosted eyes.
If I stand beyond the
window, out in fields of
moth-eaten snow, will I be
like him and disappear? Was
there another Way? Does
his sister want to die because
his funeral glorified a life
of disuse? Did I almost live
and die in L.A., or was that
just a dream another night
in my life of dreams so
real even my cold
dreams are ashamed?
Sora means “sky”
in Japanese. Sora is
where I fly to when
I won’t remember.
— Fulcrum contributor
