My brother wakes up

in a Germany

he made in our attic.

The gun-fire mist of an encampment in Verdun–

The approximations of his leather straps, compasses,

bayonets, and black boots still scuffed from the

frantic somersaults of shovels are displayed

like a museum or a picnic.

His pocket watches hang themselves

like deserters by his digital alarm clock

that wakes him up in musket-fire.

I’m fascinated by a boy who is such a pacifist

to want to imagine himself at war everyday.

His voice trails off when he talks about a battle–

void of glory– like the hesitations of  a veteran–

as if he’s seen death.

My brother is a corporal.

My brother is saint.

My brother is rusted bayonets and dead men’s

war medals.

My brother is a sixteen-year-old

scholar who reads the first chapter of

book from our attic.