by John Amen
My brother loosened his binds with his teeth, that impossible knot passed down from distant generations. He found his horn sleeping in a suitcase, shoved a breath into the mouthpiece. He wasn’t sure what to play, it had been so long since he’d shucked a limelight, cobbling a lightning solo. I clapped for him, told him his horn could clear a traffic jam – if he’d just toss his needle off the Promenade, wait for that perfect note to arrive. But I couldn’t book him for the mantra I wanted him to play, that phrase that could’ve erased his lingering debts. He vanished down Montague, his airless horn catching the sunlight – what does a brother do with his brother’s absence.
John Amen was the recipient of the 2021 Jack Grapes Poetry Prize and the 2024 Susan Laughter Myers Fellowship. His poems and prose have appeared recently in Rattle, Prairie Schooner, Poetry Daily, American Literary Review, and Tupelo Quarterly. His new collection, Dark Souvenirs, was released by NYQ Books in 2024.
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