He fishes for shrimps and tadpoles, his mask of schizophrenia gone.
My brother’s face ash-white, his fingers tremble like leaves.
He flees from threatening hooligans, tadpoles break from his net.
I strain to catch his nebulous face, my vision blurs, the river forks…
It threatens with curves.
The first time water, waist-deep, soars and sweeps over me.
The second time the clock turns back, I see my brother.
He’s playing the guitar, his voice boisterous, his cheeks chubby-red.
I wake to find the same river. Dream-like it beckons me.
It lures with my brother’s voice.