Because we didn’t know moss,

my brother would turn the rocks over in the yard

and place them to his mouth. 

They were bitter, damp, faint hint of licorice.

Dirt he shook that didn’t fall.

I learned colors 

from the birds; patience from the horses

who lived on the field

that would become a parking lot.

When the man came for me,

my brother apologized,

as if they were his hands.

This was to be expected:

there was always something

covering for something else.

This was how we lived, for years—

looking for things under other things,

long before we knew we were different,

like that moment of quiet

when I join my therapist’s waiting room

and she doesn’t yet know I am there.