TO MY BROTHER, I SAY, “EXODUS.”
BY CHRISTOPHER GAMEZ
We pass the old homes built from the sighs
of our mothers, but we never leave,
and rightfully so,
people will call us the street.
But, as I go and you stay, I will say to them,
“My brother and I are not the song
of our fleeing fathers, that non-committal
drone of a train,
at three a.m., who loves the city
My brother and I are the quiet whirr
that echoes from the distance, through trees,
into windows, becoming a song of memory.
We are harmony,
such as the effect of tire and street.
We are a hum,
a quiet-white rose tongue that never leaves,
that is never gone,
© Sagebrush Review II Spring 2007