Pastoral with Brother

Pastoral with Brother
Brittney Scott

They found you thrashing
in a field of crab grass,
a windmill of boy
limbs pumping the air, the dirt,

the grasshoppers leaping
up and out
of your way.

They knew you,
by your swerving silhouette,
staining the bucolic sunset,
the wide open spaces,

with your bright red
vomit stained jersey,
your rat tail hanging
out of your backwards hat.

You punched two cops
before they used their boots,
pressing your cheek
flushed with whiskey

into the thistle rubbing
mouth and jaw raw,
until you couldn’t speak.

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