I can hear it through the door,
my brother snoring, its denseness,
the tuneful scrape of his chair
revolving, his body sprawled
like a dead palm leaf,
his breath crunching, the many
slippers fanned out like the roots
behind our small green house, where
I poured old milk and rice and juices.
And there are ants who always return
to our kitchen, where they
can feel my brother’s breath inside
themselves, then disappear—
my vacuum’s ribbed hose
unwinds, the carpeted stairs stir with dust.
--Michael G., 24