Limbo

I draw an eye on my notebook,a swirl of ink. I'm not sure whose,but it sees me whenmy brother won't.He lives with us, but died—somewhere back in childhood.He won't say how.His limbs move well enoughto walk to school and back.I've seen his vacant eye,seen him in the hallwayin his same sweatshirt.He won't pronounce my name.He skips the i. He shuts his door.We once were close, walkedhand in hand. Pre-language,we shared a bed. My notebook eyeis more alive than he:grain of paper, welt of ink.It sees more than a dead boy.And because he does alive things—like sleep and eat—I can't mourn.