My brother and I are 2 a.m. Milano cookies.
 
My brother isn't supposed to beat me at
chess-- 
in the summer when we were old 
enough to survive off the fine cuisine of boxed
macaroni and cheese and Popsicles
but far too young
to understand how to deflect boredom
we would walk to the library.
First in line at 10 a.m. when it opened--
Glasses perched on a pointed nose
the librarian knew we were the
kids without home computers-- 
ravenous for the escape of the internet.
Me in my rainbow crocs and blue knit hat
and billy always with his collar ripped
from chewing on it when he was nervous.
In between hour long internet binges we sat
by the window with the chess set
that had no second black horse.
We'd glance up as if it were raining.
My brother always beat me at chess--
and he still always beats me at chess.
It wasn't just that he was younger 
that it bothered me-- NO he NEVER won things.
Billy was younger so he was supposed
to accept his honorable loses but no
matter what Billy placed his pawn
with a patient grace of a priest listening to
a confession. He argued against his own
check-mates-- tried to help me find a 
way out. "Another game!" I'd demand.
Between us there has never been an older sibling
even though birth separates us by three years.
When crooked neck of the trees knocking together
in a thunderstorm reminded me of that our 
house could be haunted anytime I decided it was
I slept on the floor of Billy's room.
I told him I was keeping HIM safe. And he rolled
over back to sleep. I'd bring provisions for the storm.
Lamp light. Mint Milano cookies from the cabinet downstairs.
Mason jars of pomegranate juice.
"Can I have one?" he rolled over to ask.
"One for me. One for you," I'd chirp-- glancing
at the red 4 a.m. winking from the digital clock.
"Should I brush my teeth when I'm done?" he'd ask.
"No it's almost morning."
"Is it raining?"
"No it just feels like it."