My brother is holy
as he hands me his ring.
The damn thing is transfixing,
like the oyster is to the otter.
What lightening must have fried the mind
of the first man ever saw a diamond,
glancing it as he speared a fish
and thinking, That, that!
My brother is talking.
This much down, this much per month, this much insurance.
This much he loves her.
My brother's love is holy.
He'll take her to Venice, ask her there.
The gondolier will have seen it a thousand times before,
the trembling fingertips of pride,
the birdflap breath,
the very stone.
There's every kind of light in the damn thing!
I squint and see a thousand eyes squinting back.
My brother's eyes are patiently smiling.
He is quiet as a dying priest.
I hand him his ring,
and the gondolier poles onward.
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