Brothers, Christine Nicholson
Cain’s kiss; the drowned.
A photo blurred by stillwater.
Three merfolk asphyxiate
on the lawn.
Shadows drape a dampened dawn.
Mother’s face drips
down like wax.
Father, son, hold streaked hands clasped.
she’s out of water
watching them: former (twin) (daughter).
She likes a
They say these are the early signs.
[Gazing at the
fresh smeared space.
Drown them and the kill’s erased.]
Her small palms, cupped,
hold (like a plum)
a spider, crawling towards her thumb.
And were she not
trapped by the frame,
she’d hold him up to make her claim.
Coo between puckered
lips and smash
his body, ’tween her fingers gnashed.
With every kill she has one rule:
wash its remains out in the pool.