To the Siblings I Never Met

In case you ever wonder 

about the man who flicked you off

like a cigarette, about what you missed, 

I want to tell you he lived by strict rules: 

No touching, no conversation. A language

of snarls, mutterings, angry stares.

We constantly offended him. 

Oh, an occasional wisecrack or two, 

so amusing that raucous whooping sprung 

loose from my knots-- 

laughter so unrestrained he thought I was screaming--

and there was his strawberry shortcake in summer--

a delicious cloud of whipped cream on slopes

of pound cake mushy with fruit.

And there was that wink--a sudden impish entrapment
to call a truce, to pardon him with Freudian notions--

he too grew up forsaken--or simpler ones,
like, men are made for war.

But under his crushing disregard, 
our brothers malfunctioned mightily.

He was their chief impeder and they his 

and though we're old now and he long dead, 

his finger points with taut disdain at 

each of us who are still squeamish, 

still tensed--still hoping, insanely, he’ll change.

That’s what we are heir to. 
It’s all that accrued to the children 

he did not leave behind.