In Search of Brother Self

I was ten years old when
my parents
told me I was born a twin
and that my twin brother died at birth.

I am my father’s only son
for the only breath my twin
brother breathes is in me.

But I do not delineate him
here for sheer alliteration.
His soft image still grows

each year within me
like two hands in the dark
that have never touched

light or each other.
They are the hands
whose fingers type these words

in search of metaphor of us.
Each poem that I write
tries to tell me who I am.

If my brother were Updike,
I could be glib and clever here.
If he were Dickey, I could be brave.

If he were Eliot, I could be
moral and loving and mean.
But I am misunderstood

even to myself.
My brother is not
Pound or Whitman.

My brother breathes only in me.
When I walk in the sun
through the field at noon,

he is the shadow that is missing.
He is the path just ahead.
Only at night are we one.


© Charles Ghigna

1 comment:

  1. He is in Heaven watching over you. You are special and are taken care of because of your brother and your love for him!

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