Jonquils and Naught

Jonquil, the word drops

from your mouth like two weighted marbles.
They roll on the heartwood floor and out

the screen door into the front

garden where you spent the morning

writing letters to your missing brother

who was born twenty nine years ago

in the month of May, two weeks

late, and already out of breath.

Been three months since his last call.

February then, the lawn bitter, stunted,

still furious at the sun. Not much said.

You didn't press him--kept his

words achingly polished in the wet parlor of his throat Well, I... I will... soon... see you--

but if you could, you would have

reached right in, right down, right 

through that rigid duct to finger, 

just once, the word you knew was there,
unfurling like a bulb that blooms in reverse

in the darkness that sustains what is underground