the snow crunch beneath boot sole & the crack of steel wreathes his brother’s entry into the wood behind the house. the axe-bit finds its bed in a log & sasha stoops down to catch the handle of his tea cup between thumb & forefinger in a moment’s respite. [ the breadth of his brother’s shoulders haven’t dwindled from the pinhole light of childhood memory, but his soft edges have sharpened with the clarity of adulthood. ] when he looks at his brother he sees houses burning, his soul bleeding out warmth into the air around him with the cloying sweetness of grave-rot & the copper threads in his hair catching fire in the sunlight. when he looks at his brother he sees fragility, a vulnerability that needs to be clawed out from the heart.
again, the swing of his axe cleaves wood & thought in twine. the bite of the handle clenched in his fist feels enough like the skull of his brother to tamp the battery-acid sting in his throat & brimming violence in the ride of his tongue.
he tilts his head in reference to the warm glow of the kitchen where the shadows of their wives reside, diving into inanity to avoid landmines. « aleysa’s a good wife. she’ll teach natalya well. »
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