when my brother was three or four
he’d steal dog biscuits
from under our grandmother’s
kitchen counter
and when those milk-bone boxes ran dry
from the dogs themselves
with their brittle bones
hardly able to put up a fight
against his white baby teeth and shiny coat
he would just crunch away in a dark corner
hoping for enough time
to lap up every loose crumb
sometimes he got lucky
others my mother would snatch them
a soggy half-eaten boneyard
from his hot little fingers
and he would sit there wailing
tears rolling down his cheeks
his first demons
he could feel them in his bones
wagging their tails
and nipping at his heels
from darker corners.
