Outside, It Is Snowing

a poem.

My hand is holding my brother's.
His chest moves
but it is not his breath.
My hand tilts
pouring my homemade broth
into the stew mix.
I crouch to the floor,
sweeping my cat's favorite toy 
from beneath the bookshelf.
I crumple to the floor
when the nurses announce to us
he will not live. It is obvious. 
But not to me, to whom it is clear
that my brother will live,
and outlive me, as clear as I
will outlive my cat.
The tile is cold. The wall is blank. 
I hand my cat his tattered toy. 
I stir the stew. 
I am telling my brothers
over a rancid pot of sauerkraut
that we are space explorers,
and whoever finishes their rations first
holds the highest rank of command.
I slip my officer's ring onto my finger.
My brother is crying,
hiccup tears, apologizing
for asking me to buy him a ring
from a South Korean stand.
The gold on my finger is cold and heavy.
I slip it off. 
The chorus of Les Misérables 
sings, Look down—
I lean toward my friend, apologizing
for making us late. 
My brother leans toward me
from a church stool, as our father calls
for a volunteer. Look down, he sings,
don't look him in the eye. I laugh
to myself beside my friend, clap too loudly.
I don't mind that the seat next to me
is empty for the song.
The walls of my house are warm, 
and bright. Outside, it is snowing.
I tackle my brother into the snowbank
of his childhood home. 
Kind hands are pulling up the carpet
and patching a bullet hole in the wall. 
Mom gives us a carrot, two stones,
and a line of raisins, and we press them
into the snowman's face.
My brother's hands are cold.