Brothers

by Brennan O'Donnell

Brothers

I. 
  
The Osbornes disappeared that fall. One day  
We noticed that the Harley wasn’t there. 
When school began, I heard a teacher say 
That Donny’s mom had taken him somewhere  
 
Away from all the memories. No one knew 
Where Donny’s dad had gone. They said he’d lost 
His job. They said that Mrs. Osborne threw 
Him out, that she believed the awful cost 
  
Of Jeffy’s death was mostly his to bear. 
Others said they’d left together, that through  
The pain and blame they’d found a way to share 
Their grief.  We never knew which was the truth. 
  
II. 
  
When Jeffy Osborne died, they took our first  
Grade to the wake.  They pushed us up to see 
Him: white suit, bow-tie; rosary draping his wrists—  
Prepared for first communion as we’d been 
  
Just weeks before.  His dad sat crying hard. 
His son had fallen from his motorbike— 
A Harley Hi-Fi Blue Electra-Glide
That all of us had envied, nothing like 
  
Our fathers’ Fairlanes, Ramblers, and Dodge Darts. 
His mother cradled Donny, Jeffy’s twin. 
Her eyes were empty as they sat apart. 
We waited for the Vigil to begin. 
  
I hated Don: he was a raging bully, 
As cruel a boy as Jeff was sweet and kind. 
We marveled how such lookalikes could truly 
Be so unlike in temperament and mind. 
 
In nomine Patris—our mothers told  
Their beads. Our fathers looked askance, as dumb 
And meek as mules, as if they bore a load  
That ground them down to dust and left them numb. 
  
Et filii—I stared through narrowed eyes at Don 
Despising him for being there. Eyes red,  
He curled up in his mother’s lap—his tie undone, 
His shirt untucked, as “hush, my love” she said. 
  
O Mater misericordiae.  The prayers 
Went on.  I trembled by my mother’s side. 
I couldn’t help but think it wasn’t fair—  
That somehow God had let the wrong twin die, 
  
That He had looked the other way when Jeff 
Went spilling off the back of that machine,  
His guardian angel leaving him bereft 
As helmetless (they said) he fell unseen. 
  
As much as I was sad for Jeff—his chill 
And rigid body in the box—the bruise 
Still purple on his skull, for all the skill  
And pancake makeup Mr. Kane had used— 
  
I somehow envied him as well.  He lay 
There, precious, pure, and seeming more complete 
Than all we first communicants could be.  
Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae, 
  
Our pastor prayed: he’s safe and free from harm. 
Then sheep-like we all left them one by one:   
Jeffy in the box; his dad undone, 
And Donny sleeping in his mother’s arms. 
  
 III. 
  
For years I’d wake from a recurring dream. 
We’re in our first-grade room; Jeff is alive. 
And Donny’s there—but somehow changed. He seems 
Almost to hover over us, his eyes  
  
Benign, attentive, wiser than his years 
Yet still a sharp-eyed little boy no older 
Than his peers. I greet him without fear, 
His hand a gentle pressure on my shoulder. 
  
Miss Hughes, our cheerful teacher, has set up 
In front the easel with its giant calendar 
With “April” in black marker at the top, 
 In red the numbered days gone by so far, 
  
The days to come still blank. Above, the clock:  
Its black hands on a face of black and white  
At twelve and nine.   Beneath, a pinewood box 
The size of a first-grader. We’re not frightened.   
  
We take for granted how it is—that any 
Day could be the day when one of us 
Is made to mark the date in red, and then 
Lie down for good.  We all look to Miss Hughes. 
  
At this point in the dream, the light begins to fade. 
Miss Hughes performs some sort of divination. 
The marker finds its way to Jeffy’s hand.  
He looks around the room in resignation 
  
And stands beside the easel poised to write 
The date—the sixteenth—in the empty square, 
When Donny, flashing through the dying light 
Removes the pen from Jeffy’s grasp. With care 
  
He strokes and kisses his twin brother’s face— 
Then steps into the box and takes his place

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Brennan O’Donnell is recently retired after 35 years as a professor and administrator at Loyola University Maryland, Fordham University, and Manhattan University. During his time in the classroom, he regularly assigned long poems, much to some students’ chagrin. Among his publications are two studies of the poetry of William Wordsworth: Numerous Verse: A Guide to the Stanzas and Metrical Structures of Wordsworth's Poetry (Studies in Philology Texts and Studies) and The Passion of Meter: A Study of Wordsworth’s Metrical Art (Kent State University Press). He is the 2014 recipient of the Robert Fitzgerald Prosody Award, presented by the Westchester Poetry Conference to “scholars who have made a lasting contribution to the art and science of versification.”

Note from the Poet

As the poem’s recurrent dream suggests, the story of these brothers and their family has haunted me since the wake described in the poem. I’m grateful for the space to work out some of the meaning of that haunting. Many thanks to Mary Finnegan for her encouragement and advice.