First Deaths

A red balloon sailing
through patchwork skies
whisked my brother's young feet
from the fairground. Day bled
to twilight before a cop found him
mangled in a ditch by the highway.

After the funeral, my Dutch au pair
led me down to our basement
and laughed when I told her
I'd never played baseball. Later
we snuck my father’s rifle
out to the train yards, and she
showed me how creamy breasts
of pigeons turn crimson, and

how nothing seems more alive
than in that moment
before it isn't.

first published by Algebra of Owls