My Brother's Dead Weight

His body no longer serves him, and he
is reduced to the care of others. None
of his family says it out loud, but think
the duration of his dying, and the work
he requires imposes on their sovereignty.

They have lives of their own, time tables,
things to do, and like the Iraqi child in
TIME magazine with both arms blown off,
the burns on his small body slathered
with grease, my brother requires someone’s

attention. They have similar looks in
their eyes, my brother and the child
labeled the collateral damage of war.
Neither can clean himself after bodily
functions. Their shit is the responsibility

of those around them. I can barely lift
my brother from his mechanical bed, and
slather his lower body with A and D ointment
to prevent diaper rash, and he has been
bombed only by disease and age.

There is reward in his care, and, grateful
for his release, I will weep at my brother’s
passing as I was tortured by the images of
war. I cannot protest mortality the way
I protest war.