Alina Gregorian

I fell with my brother
through the gravel on our porch.
It was nothing like the advertisement.
It scratched my thoughts.
I fell with my brother
through the dust bowl in Arkansas.
The papers depicted us as stragglers,
fishing for a pothole to fill up
with our buttons.
As if we were two trees,
dancing in frustration
and peeling oranges after a good shave.
I fell with my brother.
We could have been weeds
had we not been tundras
pining for a cabin
to be built above our heads.
Already the mountains roar
like a pharmacist dropping pills.
I fell in the admiration principle
with my brother. We were
not very kind to the breeze.