You Can Have It
My brother comes home from work
and climbs the stairs to our room.
I can hear the bed groan and his shoes drop
one by one. You can have it, he says.
The moonlight streams in the window
and his unshaven face is whitened
like the face of the moon. He will sleep
long after noon and waken to find me gone.
Thirty years will pass before I remember
that moment when suddenly I knew each man
has one brother who dies when he sleeps
and sleeps when he rises to face this life,
and that together they are only one man
sharing a heart that always labors, hands
yellowed and cracked, a mouth that gasps
for breath and asks, Am I gonna make it?
All night at the ice plant he had fed
the chute its silvery blocks, and then I
stacked cases of orange soda for the children
of Kentucky, one gray boxcar at a time
with always two more waiting. We were twenty
for such a short time and always in
the wrong clothes, crusted with dirt
and sweat. I think now we were never twenty.
In 1948 in the city of Detroit, founded
by de la Mothe Cadillac for the distant purposes
of Henry Ford, no one wakened or died,
no one walked the streets or stoked a furnace,
for there was no such year, and now
that year has fallen off all the old newspapers,
calendars, doctors’ appointments, bonds,
wedding certificates, drivers licenses.
The city slept. The snow turned to ice.
The ice to standing pools or rivers
racing in the gutters. Then bright grass rose
between the thousands of cracked squares,
and that grass died. I give you back 1948.
I give you all the years from then
to the coming one. Give me back the moon
with its frail light falling across a face.
Give me back my young brother, hard
and furious, with wide shoulders and a curse
for God and burning eyes that look upon
all creation and say, You can have it.
-- Philip Levine
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katsuki wakes up to little fingers walking up the curve of his bicep.
his son is sitting there at the head of the bed, right next to him, waiting, and when katsuki opens one bleary eye to peek up at him, the little boy very casually says,
"hey, dad."
it's the middle of the day. katsuki's been on night patrol for the past week and it's, unfortunately, starting to finally catch up to him; through the first few days, he was able to keep constant with you and your son's schedule, even if he was exhausted, but he'd hit the couch the minute he'd come inside this morning and, truthfully, he doesn't remember getting up for the bed at all.
when katsuki gives a little grunt of acknowledgement, the little boy continues, scooching close enough that his knees are pressed against his dad's arm. "um, can i play that jumping game on your phone?"
even half-asleep, katsuki snorts. there's a small puddle of drool that's gathered on the pillow under his head, and he frowns, stretching out his arms before rolling onto his back. "not right now."
the little boy lets out a heavy sigh, as if the answer has greatly disappointed him, but he says, "okay."
katsuki nearly falls back to sleep—even though his son scoots closer, until they're touching again—but he raises his head at the soft sound of your voice.
"hey, c'mon," you murmur from the foot of the bed, holding out your arms even if the little boy is too big to be babied anymore. "let daddy sleep, come sit with me while i wait for your stinky clothes to finish washing."
you're pretty, katsuki thinks, taking a long look at the jeans hugging your hips, how the color of your shirt compliments your skin, and he cements it to the forefront of his mind as he drops his head back down. it's easier to relax like this: thinking of you, gentle and safe inside your home.
but the little boy at his side whines, grouchy enough that katsuki peeks one eye at him again. "no," he grumbles, scooting into the crevice of his dad's armpit when you reach a little further for him. "i wanna take a nap, too."
you let out a little sigh. "oh, you do? little boy, you never want to take a nap."
"yes i do!"
"hey," katsuki croaks, frowning at his son for the arguing—and the boy knows it; he shuts his lips, casting you a quick look before laying back, head resting on katsuki's shoulder. "'s'fine," he tells you, shaking his head when you pout at him apologetically. "he says he's gonna nap, he's gonna nap."
your son nods, the soft of his hair ruffling against katsuki's nose. "mommy can nap, too."
"yeah," katsuki pats the bed through his yawn, dropping his head back one final time, as his eyes shut. "can nap, too."
"mommy has things to do," you press a kiss to katsuki's forehead, and then lean over to press another onto your son. "but you gotta sleep, okay? no goofing around."
katsuki feels the nudge of his son's nose as he turns his head into him, hair tickling him again as he nods—and for a while, he's still, quiet enough that katsuki can mostly fall back to sleep.
but after a few minutes, he can hear the soft sounds of his lips moving as he talks to himself, whispers little stories katsuki knows you've told him before, and he even lightly touches his fingers to the scar beneath katsuki's eye; poking at the ones on his shoulders; the edge of the one on his chest, peeking up over the blanket.
the little boy doesn't sleep, and katsuki doesn't either, really, but—he doesn't mind too much.
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The Idea of Housework
-- Dorianne Laux
What good does it do anyone
to have a drawer full of clean knives,
the tines of tiny pitchforks
gleaming in plastic bins, your face
reflected eight times over
in the oval bowls of spoons?
What does it matter that the bathmat’s
scrubbed free of mold, the door mat
swept clear of leaves, the screen door
picked clean of bees’ wings, wasps’
dumbstruck bodies, the thoraxes
of flies and moths, high corners
broomed of spider webs, flowered
sheets folded and sealed in drawers,
blankets shaken so sleep’s duff and fuzz,
dead skin flakes, lost strands of hair
flicker down on the cut grass?
Who cares if breadcrumbs collect
on the countertop, if photographs
of the ones you love go gray with dust,
if milk jugs pile up, unreturned,
on the back porch near the old dog’s dish
encrusted with puppy chow?
Oh to rub the windows with vinegar,
the trees behind them revealing
their true colors. Oh the bleachy,
waxy, soapy perfume of spring.
Why should the things of this world
shine so? Tell me if you know.
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