The Other Son
       

My father welcomes the prodigal.
He would hoist him to his shoulders
if he could.

As for me,
who can be trusted,
I know I speak with half a mouth:

pity my brother's bloodshot sorrow,
his sores
that will make him blind.

I stay here in my tent
brooding on the equity of rainfall.
The fig leaf bursts into life.

There is this scent of carnation.

Copyright © 2010 Elisabeth Murawski All rights reserved
from Out-patients
Serving House Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission