instructions on finding a place to scream &/or being a sibling

you tell me, "get the pilot"
though we are not on a plane
& the sky is full of bison teeth. 
once, as children, i thought i could
run away. i told only you.
i packed a bag of pants.
you said, "don't become a dragon.
i need you." i stayed. 
there is a hole in the wall in our parents' house
that you made when you were angry.
we are a family of portals & lost stories.
sometimes i think we should be feeding the hole.
i drop in a ring. a pawpaw seed.
a single needle. the fissure is always
the hungriest part. i want to land
by which i mean i want to know
where we are. earlier this year
there was a small earthquake 
& books fell from all the shelves
in my house. you called me after
& said, "are you still alive?" you had been
in the woods & felt the ground tremble.
there are these little moments that
teach us urgency. 
each year is one year closer to me getting
a pilot license for us. i am told
it is a terrible process. it involves
an angel sacrifice & a pile of magazines.
waiting room after waiting room. i will fly us
to a waterfall. there we can scream 
& everyone will think it is just water.
don't you want to be just water?
i am only sorry for the times 
i woke you up in the middle of the night
to ask if you were still alive. you always blinked.
eyes like state quarters. you'd say, "what?"
& that was enough.