Based on a true story

As a child, your brother liked
peeling shells off snails,
exposing spiralled secrets
of their brief lives
as they writhed
into shrivelled death.

You asked him, Why?
They were frightening, he said,
like monsters made of slime.
You pointed out, they were tiny,
he was huge, and they died
every time. He said, yes,
 
but they were weird—shape-
shifting, slippery, unpredictable
eaters of poop. Their skin . . . 
. . . was it really skin? He was sure
they hadn’t hearts or minds
—at least, not like his. 

Years later, you told him
you were gay. He spat,
That’s Disgusting.

When he had children, 
he asked your sister to babysit, 
never you. All fags are paedos, 
he said. And when you wanted
to give birthday gifts
he let you see your nephews

only in a public mall, gazed on
by cameras and onlookers 
while he and his wife gripped
their children’s wrists
so tight, their tiny wrists
turned purple. 

You thought then 
of those snails, how soft
their insides were, 
how their antennae thrashed 
as your brother stripped them, 
scared by how their being stretched

beyond his own
child brain’s scope
for understanding.