My Brother, the Artist, at Seven

As a boy he played alone in the fields 
behind our block, six frame houses 
holding six immigrant families, 
the parents speaking only gibberish 
to their neighbors. Without the kids 
they couldn't say "Good morning" and be 
understood. Little wonder 
he learned early to speak to himself, 
to tell no one what truly mattered. 
How much can matter to a kid 
of seven? Everything. The whole world 
can be his. Just after dawn he sneaks 
out to hide in the wild, bleached grasses 
of August and pretends he's grown up, 
someone complete in himself without 
the need for anyone, a warrior 
from the ancient places our fathers 
fled years before, those magic places: 
Kiev, Odessa, the Crimea, 
Port Said, Alexandria, Lisbon, 
the Canaries, Caracas, Galveston. 
In the damp grass he recites the names 
over and over in a hushed voice 
while the sun climbs into the locust tree 
to waken the houses. The husbands leave 
for work, the women return to bed, the kids 
bend to porridge and milk. He advances 
slowly, eyes fixed, an animal or a god, 
while beneath him the earth holds its breath.