Fist to Palm - to Jonathan

I.
In pompless childhood ritual,
we pricked each other’s fingers,
mixed platelets on a thumb.
Long after, we kept the memory of coerced blood,
learned how to exact it,
and how deep to safely probe.

Ours was civil war,
blood against blood.
Each held out against the conquest of the enemy,
united only against
love-your-brother-as-yourself,
the adage of our father.

As knowledge breeds advantage,
I watched you with my eyes closed,
predicted moves, counter-planned.
I learned your hand:
the shape your fingers held.

As love is hatred’s brother passion,
I loved you deep.
I loved you with my clenched teeth.
You, the battering ram
I, the marble fortress.

II.
Remember the bunker near Metz?
The field vibrated with heat last summer
but the bunker was cool.
Someone had scratched his name in the concrete
in 1941.
I touched your elbow by accident.
And you felt like you were my brother.