Brandon Shane




At dinner, I gave my brother a green apple,
and the guests either laughed, or whispered  
sadly about the poor boy, but all of them knew  
the plentiful wagyu, red wine, buttered lobster  
throat bound, while he bit until his teeth hit the rind,  
and he pressed his cheek into my shoulder  
when the pain was enough to scrunch  
his little mouth, water his brown eyes,  
and some of the guests laughed, or continued  
whispering sadly about the poor boy.

The apple was done, and I lifted his soft chin,  
kissed his forehead like dad, knowing chemotherapy  
in the casual exhaustion of chewing and swallowing,  
nestling his head against my plaid jacket,  
the guests beginning to talk again, some wincing,  
others quiet, a few crying into their napkins.  
I was thinking of a park hidden in smallness  
right after a storm, wilted grass, the branch  
of a tree having survived high wind  
and the many deaths of their kin. 
There’s a little peace here,  
and he climbs my shoulder,  
asking if he can play that game  
for another hour,  
or until the guests  
go home.

The night was an open window, 
a big cheese moon, my brother curled  
in a whirlpool of blankets, and all his dreams  
had come true, and it was true; all of them  
were readily achievable, or playable  
on a gaming system; he hadn’t been exposed  
to complicated lifestyles and Michelin stars.  
I wonder if he ever  
stopped himself from asking to live forever,  
or just a bit longer for that ride, or movie,  
knowing there are some things  
we all hope for  
but know, deep down  
will not come true.  



Brandon Shane is a poet and horticulturist, born in Yokosuka, Japan. You can see his work in trampset, Chiron Review, the Argyle Literary Magazine, Berlin Literary Review, Acropolis Journal, Grim & Gilded, Ink in Thirds, Dark Winter Lit, Prairie Home Magazine, among many others. He graduated from CSULB with a degree in English.