![\"Brent](\"http:\/\/noellesickels.com\/wp\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/04\/ForMadrigal.jpg\")
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Let\u2019s repeat the song of Let\u2019s repeat the song of Let\u2019s repeat the song of Let\u2019s repeat the song of Let\u2019s repeat the song of Let\u2019s repeat the song of Let\u2019s repeat the song of Let\u2019s repeat the song of Let\u2019s repeat the last song, too Let us repeat, repeat -for Brent<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201c<\/em>Madrigal\u201d was published in the anthology Beloved on the Earth<\/em>, Holy Cow Press, Duluth, MN, 2009.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
\nsummer gutters rushing rainwater
\n<\/span>asphalt still warm under bare feet
\n<\/span>its wet scent sharp in our nostrils
\n<\/span>my brother filling his pockets with worms
\n<\/span>flooded out of earthen homes<\/span><\/p>\n
\nwoolen Army blanket spread on crabgrass
\nitchy at the backs of our skinny knees
\ngrape juice in tall metal tumblers
\nthe taste of iced aluminum
\nmaking the back of my mouth water
\nas if it were crying<\/p>\n
\nrotten apples in the autumn yard
\ncircling, avaricious yellow jackets
\nraking was supposed to be my brother\u2019s job
\nwhile we girls set table, sorted laundry
\nrocked the eternal baby
\nbut there were too many apples for one boy alone
\nhe was so sluggish we were dispatched to help<\/p>\n
\neave icicles carefully broken off
\nfast-melting spikes tasting mildly of dirt
\nsnow-packed ice-slick Terhune Street
\nhard trudge up, dizzying flight down
\nmy brother\u2019s last minute veer
\nfrom River Road slush and traffic
\ninto drifts built by plows while we slept<\/p>\n
\nbreaking glass and blood, later regrets and stitches
\nwhen I locked my brother outside in his underwear
\nhe pounded the door and I couldn\u2019t let him in
\ntoo afraid of his desperate outrage
\nthe angry squall in his dark eyes<\/p>\n
\nplays we put on for our parents
\nI was always director and sometimes actor, too
\nmelodramas about orphans
\nthat managed to feature a romance
\nobligating my brother to kiss a sister on the mouth
\nbut only after both had held their breath
\nand folded their lips in tight over teeth<\/p>\n
\nboard games and card games
\nheated disputes and do-overs
\nwhether the Pick-Up stick moved
\nwhich number the spinner stopped on
\nmy brother played with ardor
\nbelieved he could make luck
\nfanned out his paper money, rubbed the dice
\nwould not let me quit Monopoly, concede at checkers
\ninsisting I count on chance, not give up hope<\/p>\n
\nmen moving through the neighborhood
\nscissors man hunched in his oily truck
\ngray grindstone sparking knives, mower blades
\nFuller Brush man on housebound afternoons
\nwide case of brushes, combs, creams, brooms
\nearly morning bounty of Dugan Bread man
\nwe took turns picking treats from his big basket
\nGood Humor man on summer nights
\nwhite shirt, white pants, trim white mustache
\nI always got a toasted almond bar
\nmy brother chose differently every time<\/p>\n
\nmy brother at 50, magician, gambler
\ncancer coarsening his slow voice
\nscorned doctors, banked on other healers
\npotions, purges, light machine
\nhe would not say good-bye
\nall his families slipknots on a silken cord<\/p>\n
\nour final day together
\nhis lanky, ravished body regal still
\nstretched out on living room floor
\nwatching the Oscars
\nhe yearned, in the end, for simple things
\nto work up a sweat in the garden
\nto drive through the desert, top down
\nto play poker and win<\/p>\n