Vardaman
My brother is Darl. He went to Jackson on the train.
I saw my brother crying on the box
where my mother is. A big moon
sawed in half above him crying for
what my mother took with her when
she left the day. Where did she go
I asked my brother. It is always
night where she is he said.
My brother’s head is full of flames.
I can’t see them. I can see two blue
circles like holes of sky punched through
a fence and why is there no smoke.
One day I found something she wrote.
I showed my brother and he took it
and he said you can keep a secret good
so I knew it was something
that could be mine and his but not for my father
and not for my mother. My brother’s brain
is wrong but my brother is right. It was night
when he went on the train. The sun is on fire
too and it runs on tracks too. First
it is night and then it goes up up and over
and then it goes down and then
it is night again. Time
must run on tracks too because it goes
in a big circle and that is why clocks.
A clock is a long time
and it is also a short time. I have
to do all the not-telling myself now.
Crying on the box of my mother
under a moonhalf. Bright blue holes
of shining. One day I’ll go in a box
too with night in it like my mother
and my mother will be there
and we will get on a red train
and ride through the night trees and black
leaves with moon on them
to where my brother is
waiting in the cool air
with no more fire inside his head.
where my mother is. A big moon
sawed in half above him crying for
what my mother took with her when
she left the day. Where did she go
I asked my brother. It is always
night where she is he said.
My brother’s head is full of flames.
I can’t see them. I can see two blue
circles like holes of sky punched through
a fence and why is there no smoke.
One day I found something she wrote.
I showed my brother and he took it
and he said you can keep a secret good
so I knew it was something
that could be mine and his but not for my father
and not for my mother. My brother’s brain
is wrong but my brother is right. It was night
when he went on the train. The sun is on fire
too and it runs on tracks too. First
it is night and then it goes up up and over
and then it goes down and then
it is night again. Time
must run on tracks too because it goes
in a big circle and that is why clocks.
A clock is a long time
and it is also a short time. I have
to do all the not-telling myself now.
Crying on the box of my mother
under a moonhalf. Bright blue holes
of shining. One day I’ll go in a box
too with night in it like my mother
and my mother will be there
and we will get on a red train
and ride through the night trees and black
leaves with moon on them
to where my brother is
waiting in the cool air
with no more fire inside his head.
“Vardaman” originally appeared in Cream City Review and has been reprinted here with permission of the author.
Matt Morton’s poems appear or are forthcoming in Gulf Coast, Indiana Review, Quarterly West, West Branch, and elsewhere. He recently received the Sycamore Review 2014 Wabash Prize for Poetry, selected by Bob Hicok. Originally from Rockwall, Texas, he teaches creative writing and literature at Johns Hopkins University.
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