Jesus’s Brother, and; Resumption, and; Two Pianos

It was difficult living with that relentless perfection. He wouldn’t tell me

how the water turned to wine, and he never did it for me either—only

for strangers, only for a crowd. I remember him as someone who was always leaving

to work his magic in the streets—among the men who clearly hated him, the women

who somehow didn’t. He was a lamp that lit my failings. He showed me the cracks

in everything I thought and taught me to fill them with the music of his mystery, which he sang

in a key beyond my range, and which everyone around me kept trying to hum.

Resumption

The snow has become indistinguishable from the street it used to smother. The dog-shits of winter have reemerged. It won’t be long before the bridesmaids are spilling drinks upon their dresses, before I’m smashing the mole tunnels flat. Everything hidden returns in force. I should know that by now. Each flower, damp and pushing toward light, prepares the note of its hollering.

Two Pianos

The pianos from two different ballet studios have blended together. They are the same key and tempo, and I am equidistant between the open doors, waiting for my daughter to finish up in the studio to the left. This new song is both familiar and unpredictable—like the weather in April or the body of my wife in bed. The dancers in both rooms are dancing to the song. Flawlessly. It is strange how the world stitches together sometimes. We graft the mimosa branch to the maple trunk, and it decides to hold. Almost every Saturday night somewhere, a drunk teenager’s heart is sewn inside an old man. The sky does something incredible, and every puddle repeats it. Behind me in the plate-glass windows, the daylilies race like slow fire over the hills of the town landfill.