And then I'm going to finish on two poems.
So one of the things that I try and write a little bit about
is having a brother who's a meth addict,
and how my family has dealt with that and what that means.
And I think something that's important for you
younger writers to know is that a lot of times,
I mean, if we tell somebody, oh, this is what happened,
and it was awful and it was painful.
It's not going to mean anything to your reader.
And so sometimes you have to find images
even if the images don't make sense right away,
but you try and find the images from your daily life,
and you make them mean something a little bit more.
And so this is an example of a poem
that's a little bit surreal.
So it's not going to be realistic images you're
used to seeing.
But it's my way of trying to explain watching my brother act
the way he acts when he's doing some of the things he does.
"My brother, my wound".
He was calling in the bulls from the street.
They came like a dark river.
A blur of chest and hoof.
Everything moving under splinter.
Hooked their horns through the walls.
Light hummed the holes like yellow jackets.
My mouth was a nest torn empty.
Then he was at the table, then in the pig's jaws.
He was not hungry.
He was stop.
He was bad apple.
He was choking.
So I punched my fist against his stomach.
Mars flew out and broke open or ballooned.
How many small red eyes shut in that husk?
He said, look, look, and they did.
He said, lift up your shirt and I did.
He slid his fork beneath my ribs.
Yes, he sang, a Jesus side wound.
It wouldn't stop bleeding.
He reached inside and turned on the lamp.
I never knew I was also a lamp until the light fell out of me,
dripped down my thigh, flew up in me, cut in my throat
like a canary.
Canaries really means dogs, he said.
He put on his shoes.
You started this with your mouth, he pointed.
Where are you going?
I asked.
To ride the Ferris wheel, he answered.
And climbed inside me like a window.