Frostwriting

The Night My Brother Fled The Country

by Gabrielle Soria

I.
I watch you pressing your shirts as the silence
bears down on my shoulders. The water
in the iron jostles, rumbles like an empty stomach.

Earlier you asked me what you should bring.
What should you bring when you run from the law?
I did not know what to tell you except not to run at all.

You touch my shoulder, hand full of heat.
Mother used to run your hands over her wrinkles,
as if you could undo the creases.

Now she sits alone, downstairs, rocked in sorrow,
her ears straining for the click of your suitcase,
the click of the door.

I remember games played as children, deep in the drying,
trying to spot our shadows in the billowing
backs of shirts. Your shadow has overtaken you.

When you run tonight, I hope you won’t be seen.

II. 
  My sister sits in a corner, hands knotted,
  face wet. Her hair hangs in a curtain
  to hide her eyes, so like mine. So like Mother’s.

  I smooth the shirts with shaking hands.
  Lines traced across my palms mimic hers, but   point
  to different places.

  I will trace the routes of my father. My sister
  must trace the path of our mother, the creak
  of rockers is in her tightened fingers.

  I hope for open roads unwinding,
  leather seats that ask no questions.
  I will not stop, not to eat, not to sleep,
 
  Not to contemplate the patterns of palms
  Until the bumper has crossed the last state line. 
  I refuse to see bars.

III.
Somewhere outside a dog howls
and the last shirt spreads across the board.
Your pulse ticks in your neck, impatient.
  You are as good as gone already.