My brother and I
are smoking cigarettes
while the streetlights on northern avenue
roll over the tops of our heads
No sound but our bass-heavy music,
smoke swirling in the cab of my car
him singing along in the french
I am always on the verge of forgetting
jumping with the beat, taking his drags in rhythm
We spent half a childhood across the ocean
from each other, and I wonder
if the late nights will ever stop feeling stolen
My oldest little brother, stolen from me by an ocean
who cares nothing for love and lost childhoods
When I moved to the coast,
I spent an hour up to my knees in the Atlantic,
eyes closed, trying to feel my brother
across the thousands of miles.
I felt the current, the ebb and flow
of an entity too great to know my pain.
To the waves swallowing my calves, I whispered
I don’t blame you.
I will be an entity
too great to know it, too.
About the Poet
Sara Gober is an undergraduate student and military spouse in Eastern North Carolina. She is currently pursuing her associate’s degree, and plans to pursue her BA in creative writing shortly after graduation. Gober is a lifelong writer and lover of poetry, and hopes to make it a career one day.