Two and Seven

Before the life-blood-robbers arrived
thundering on horseback,
their demands
for our flesh
branded nightly
into our dreams,
we went fishing together,
my big brother and I,
the familiar "no sound"
leading us,
hand-in-hand,
toward the irrigation ditch,
all expectation and hope:
pockets full of paperclip hooks,
rusted campbell soup can full of dirt and worms
trailing a kite string
beneath the sun sparkled poplars
that flickered above
our unbent shadows.