in a house pink like a thumb lived two brothers.
their father had snapped his neck skiing. their mother
piously oiled his wheelchair, her pitiful prayer, and outside
the older boy fenced and fried his backside.
 
the younger was sickly. he shunned the sun
instead held vigil with his father, became the better-loved son,
ran baths for pa and read him dusty paperbacks
though the old crank was arrogant and stuffed with earwax.
 
the younger lost breath in his sleep. he choked
on mere dreams. it was the elder who realized: one night he woke,
suspicious, and dutifully poked Jeff in the eye when he had ceased to snore.
they were invited to exit after mom named the doctor a whore.
 
so Jeffy had apnea, and their father was mute.
frail mom shouldered all as older John bulked into a brute.
she was lonely and crazy and fled on her knees
to their loony neighbor, who claimed the solution was trees.
 
Jeffy’s soul, the neighbor spoke, was an oak. John’s was an elm-
once common, now exotic, it promised to overwhelm
any capacity for cruelty he harbored within.
though mom cared more about Jeffy’s goose skin.
 
the kid was sicker. he regressed by the day
not sleeping, not eating, his cheeks the repulsive gray
of blind tubers. poor mom buried her hands in the earth
desperate enough to believe in deciduous rebirth.
 
the oak she placed under Jeffy’s window. it was thin and it swayed
though the John’s elm in the front yard soon offered him glorious shade.
Jeffy had copied his father and barricaded his lips.
he rose, dozed, and retired, his days a grim ellipse.
 
so selfish was he that he insisted on sleeping alone.
if the door even creaked he would squirm with a frown and a groan.
confined to the hall, the mother was frantic; her hand was forced
impatient to guard Jeff she took a foolhardy course
 
and scaled the young oak. though it was feeble,
a fall from any height for the moms would be lethal.
from under his elm John witnessed her awkward ascent
and rose to prevent a crunchy tailbone indent.
 
 through branches she glimpsed her son’s blissed moonface-
then she heard it, a wetness she instantly placed-
the limp skin slap of a good jerk-off
sparked an anal diffusion of last night’s beef stroganoff.
 
lucky moms: John was hardy, and ran at full tilt
to his traumatized mother, who without a cry spilled
downward, led by her butt. lucky: the brute pushed and snagged her
in his arms mere inches before her life would have blurred.
 
‘lucky you planted these trees,’ said he,
setting her down with grace. ‘lucky!’ she cried. ‘I disagree.’
‘but without them you would have no reason to climb or to fall,
or to discover your youngest isn’t really sick at all.’  
 
‘but I have failed. my sons are spiteful, full of contempt,
and I can’t stand my husband, the living dead-
I mucked up, I’m stupid, I’m evil and wrong’-
all this she confessed to her eldest John.  
 
he guided her in the house. he put on the kettle.
she made a pit stop, he got two mugs. and then he settled
in with the moms, and gathered courage, and said:
‘you are lucky. you see into our heads.’
 
‘you are right, Jeffy’s weird, and I’m testy.
but we are lucky. today could have been messy.’
‘it was,’ said she, and he: ‘but thanks for the tree.’
‘we are lucky to be a dysfunctional family.’