Poem for a Brother, Long Lost
On my walks beside the bay I listen to the natural world,
hear it the way you taught me. You loved the outdoors,
spent time watching a patient blue heron fish the marshes
beside our summer cottage.
You and I both sought flight.
Long before I showed you how to tie your shoelaces,
you were already inventing ways to escape. You were a scientist
who believed in magic, in fairies and elves. You dreamed
of traveling to the moon—and like the moon, you showed us
your bright face, hid away your dark side.
We chose different ways to break free.
I am still walking this world, loving it for you. Today
on the trail, there was a moon, hovering in the sky.
Seeing a moon in daylight—
isn’t there magic in that? And then, a heron nearby
took flight. I heard the clatter of his wings
before I saw him. You called them blues,
said they taught you patience. Sometimes
when I talk about you, I neglect to mention
your mortality. I don’t say you preferred solitude,
that you chose so carefully the timing of your leaving.
That heron, I watched his ascent, his graceful neck
curved so perfectly against morning’s gray light.
To the Moon and Back/Poem with a First Line Stolen from Fernando Contraras Castro
Birds that eat dreams nest in the wind.
Once I heard a woman speak of her brother’s suicide:
He never found a place to land.
…………………………………..Every winter I watch frigate birds coasting the skies
…………………………………..of Mazatlan as they ride warm thermals. The first time I saw them,
…………………………………..I tried to describe their meandering flight to my brother,
…………………………………..how they drifted in ever-shifting clusters, slept on the wing.
My only brother, a suicide too, could drink for days
and still remain upright. When he drank, he sailed
his own halcyon skies. A dreamer, lonely and shy,
he sought the brotherhood of the bar.
In rehab, I saw him rip lines from his veins,
his blood splayed across my body.
After losing his last job, he swore he’d quit the bars,
he’d go to meetings, finish his degree.
…………………………………..Some studies have found a frigate’s heart-size
…………………………………..beneficial for a life spent in high altitudes.
…………………………………..In its lifetime, it probably drifts the equivalent
…………………………………..of two times to the moon and back.
…………………………………..I read that frigates can never land
…………………………………..on water, that their web-less feet are incapable
…………………………………..of finding enough traction to lift off again.
What would be worse: to have wings and be earthbound,
forever looking up at a world you could only imagine,
or to be fated to ceaseless flight, no hope of touching down?
…………………………………..Each time I return to Mazatlan I look to the skies,
…………………………………..seeking the familiar presence of the great frigates.
…………………………………..I think about my brother, how tired he must have been.
© Gail Braune Comorat
Gail Braune Comorat is a founding member of Rehoboth Beach Writers’ Guild, and author of Phases of the Moon, and a co-author of “Walking the Sunken Boards.” Her work has appeared in Gargoyle, Grist, Mudfish, Philadelphia Stories, and The Widows’ Handbook. She lives in Lewes, Delaware where she teaches poetry and grief writing classes.
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