Cake on the Moon

In the middle of the night,
when my brother would howl in fits of laughter
I would carry a candle into his room.

His eyes lay dead
his mouth curled open, pink and red.
Some nights, his face would melt and his hair turned gray.

In the mornings, I would ask my mother,
"At that hour of night, what does he see?"
She resigned my worry, "He is eating cake on the moon, my dear."

Each evening, I followed his fit,
holding a beam over his head.
His laughter frozen, his tongue long and loose.

Every night, his sheets were damp,
his hand held still.
In my ears, his titter turned to a hollowed scream.

On the sixth night, his skin covered in miry film
his room, a bulk of heathered mist.
What would I see if I stayed through the night? 


At his feet, I slipped into sleep
My eyes glued shut,
my mouth began a howl in laughter.

From the corner, something came
I could hear my brother, still,
his weeping laughter.

In the morning
patches of skin had fallen from my feet,
teeth and hair were scattered around his room.

My mother asked why I stayed in his bed.
"He was lonely Mother,
so he took me to the moon."