Leaving Crete
My Minosian brother continues raging.
He chocks the walls of his home in signature
fistfall and spraypaint.
Drowning worries like sailors, he cannot name
their startled faces when they rise
to the bloated surface.
His father was a man well-versed in Hypocratic truth
and needles,
who knew blame
and dollars
and child psychology
and needles
via
needles
Meanwhile, his son continues his harsh lessons in the material,
internalizing a broken dialogue
of pills and aspertine.
Bitter plastic is his favorite color.
His body runs truer
than a hot stove in winter.
The copper pipes blister with song
so bright and clean.
JONATHAN ANDREWS
SOPHOMORE, CREATIVE WRITING
25
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