hunting tigers

here we are, eldest brother
twisting child proof caps counter clockwise as we counter agony
‘push down with palm while turning’
as was done to our childhood growing frames
work of adult men given to minors
that are bodies now pay us for in return . . .  a debt of pain
though the choice was not ours; we were under contract, the family plan
city kids to work a farm with a broken mother and a visiting weekend dad
our worn down self-esteem remained as we never stopped working
‘may cause dizziness’
as later did the first attention given our adolescent hearts
we were too flattered to see the spider leg mates who chose us from their restful divans
future spouses that never worked as children, and remained children as adults
our shoulders were meant to replace their parents’
flattery secured them with our ever working stability and strength
we respectively said ‘I do’
and as time passed, I called you, between double shifts, to ask of your health
you simply said: “workin”
i replied: “me too”
we cannot stop
momentums filled years
as if it were Friday night again and our Father were to arrive soon
the inspection
at age 51, him long gone,  my home is still spotless, clothes folded neatly, refrigerator clean
you filling every hour with work and tasks for others til you can no longer stand
‘may cause drowsiness’
for when we can finally dodge our double daily charge, riveted with haggard bodies’ pain
we sleep
you tell me, through mom, it is your only escape
when there, i dream
i dream we are hunting tigers
my weapon heavy and feeling foreign, i follow; we circle a dim empty warehouse  
you wielding careful shots
still striped tails slip around corners
i almost welcome being jumped from behind to end it all
feeling claws scrape into spine from nape to ass, a mimic of daytime torment
you call for me, in the dream, to keep up, keep moving
as you do . . .  even when i am awake
Mom tells me you whistle
when the pain steals your every movement as its own
you fight with a selfless child’s song
“medication may impair your ability . . . “
not as much as our childhood workload & highway accident lives have marred us
your broken and rebuilt bones, plates, pieces and screws
my heart breaks
i feel that pang, though i can no longer feel my right leg and foot
and there we are again
hunting tigers
you barking my name to keep up the hunt, turning in sweat and halting hurried limp to yell: "Come on! Let's go! There's another one! . . . SHOOT!"
Islamic interpretation tells me the tiger is illness, affliction, pain
you point your high powered rifle and fire
the echo through the corrugated steel corridors rips and tears
but never to the tiger’s skin and bones
just ours
as we, now our grandparents’ age,
no, our bodies
pay the price for what was asked of us
as little ones
siblings
so long ago
 
 
© ruth follmann