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My Brother
My brother
Never held my hand.
Instead,
He held my wrist.
He held it firmly
And when I looked up at him
That first time,
To see if he was joking
I realized he wasn’t.
So I went along with it
And didn’t question him
Until one hot and sticky summer day
In the midst of the chaos of Manhattan
I held my brothers hand.
He let go,
And held my wrist.
This time I asked him why
And he answered quickly,
As if he had thought about this many times
“This way, you won’t let go.”
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