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My little brother, Blake, stands on his bed.
I stand on mine across the room.
We have taken Zorro, a small black
guinea pig, from his cage.
I stroke Zorro’s fur to calm him
then softly, underhanded, I
pitch him to Blake across the room.
Zorro squeals, loud, piercing, unforgettable, a sound
I’d mimic for years until my voice changed.
We’re doing this on the beds because
we’re afraid Zorro will fall.
We don’t want Zorro to fall
and he doesn’t.
Blake makes the catch.
We scream “alright!” like football players,
hands over our heads, we stand
like the pillars of Hercules on the beds.
A month later, for no reason,
Zorro will bite Blake on the hand,
send him to the hospital for six stitches.
Daddy will roar about the guinea pig smell
and shove them outside in the rain.
But today, we’re Custer, Westmoreland,
we’re invincible.
© 2005, Bruce Isaacson
Bruce Isaacson is the editor/publisher of Zeitgeist Press. This poem is reprinted with his permission from his 2005 book, Ghosts Among the Neon.
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