Part 1: Assa**ins
At thirteen, my brother
dreams of becoming a paid a**a**in.
He mimics violence—tries a roundhouse kick,
barely missing my head, slices an imagined machete,
his lips puckered to exhale explosions.
He sleeps with knives under his pillow.
His eyes remain trained on his computer,
even as we have a conversation.
I watch his little character somersault,
shoot at menacing aliens. 'Here, try' he says,
I squeeze the trigger bu*ton once, again,
aiming the lasers with terrifying ease,
splattering green extraterrestrial goo
over the buzzing electronic landscape.
Part II: Chinese Stars
My brother was caught on the bus today
With Chinese stars, little metal disks with cunning grooves
designed to catch in flesh.
He carries them in the inside pockets of his jacket and pants.
He brags he's gotten them through airport customs twice.
Now I have to drive him to school.
He offers to show me how to throw them.
My brother puts the jagged circle in my hand, showing me
how to hold them so I don't cut myself,
and moves my elbow—the motion's just like fly-fishing,
graceful and clean. The campy red dragon
is smiling from the face of the star, jaws deep in maple bark.