Cuttlefish

We were sitting on the floor. I started writing
as the window darkened and the grass grew
bright. By morning, half the trees were
submarine. What was it about being young and
wanting to write? You said it wasn’t choice, it
was dictation. You had to ask. A frog leapt

through the cat flap taking refuge by our feet.
You knew I had a brother, though we’d only met
that night. Each time you forget and remember
the experience becomes truer. Like lightning
in reverse the fuse blew. I was stirring a pot
of dal, your dog Annie asleep on the floor beside

me, snoring. We went to a café whose name
rhymed with dal, me playing with a small
saltshaker, you talking about your brother. He had
to go and you were about to go with him but then
you’d changed your mind. That night there was an
accident. One second he was in his car asking if

you wanted to come and you were about to and
that was that. We were strangers in a circle eating
peach cobbler. Someone played “Galway Girl” on
a child’s toy guitar. It’s me! It’s me! you screamed.
You used to live on Grafton Street in Boston. Too
late to leave and raining now, we talked about

your brother. It was after college that you started
writing. Lightning crackled in the air. You were all
along me. I watched you heat a pot of dal, your dog
asleep beside you. You planned to leave by
twenty-three but changed your mind. To talk with
shadows you became a shade. Your eyes were

red. You looked like him. I didn’t know you had
a brother. You had to ask, you don’t have to believe.
We were sitting on my parents’ couch. You said it
wasn’t choice. You were my brother. We were
events in language. The window darkened and
the grass grew bright. Can you hear that, cuttlefish?