Green tomatoes tied to the post, the wisteria
at its shaggiest, shading the bird nests
unmolested by dogs
kenneled in the garage, shivering
in their cages and my siblings and I crowd
around the dining room table,
dicing for China, Siberia,
Kamchatka. For my little brother,
home from the hospital
with an incision like a centipede sutured to his chest,
it hurts to laugh.
Let him have the continent. Let him cash.