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A H O LLY GA R D E N I N T H E G R AY C A ST LE

Wrapped up and nestled in the square bend of kitchen cabinets, I watch my brother play with his toys through a thin gap in my safety blanket. He’s sitting Indian-style on the porch. Between us, the sliding door is open. If it were closed, there would be an unclean crack in the glass that distorts his face. He is plainly engrossed with his swollen hands, and the way they so ascendantly coerce a pair of paint-stripped and die-cast cars into dry, repeated cataclysm. Flecks of spit erupt from his cockled mouth like tiny pearls of lake foam, as he creates wet noise to simulate collision. He’s my older brother, but you wouldn’t know it. For some reason, his body refuses to release its 6

The Metric Issue 08 - Literary Magazine  
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