I speak as if my voice is a guidewire sliding toward my brother’s heart, opening each vessel’s glossy skin, lighting the coal stove inside. Warmth might begin rising upward, his cheeks coloring like twin flowers. I narrate the roads we drive by memory: The coastline north of the airport, I say, the tunnel beneath the harbor, and the city’s summer market, each storefront closed. If I could see my mother, where she sits beside the driver, I’d see how tears can look like sweat— as though she’s been running some long distance, her hair the wiry stems of orchids in my father’s greenhouse. When I was young, he lifted a caught sparrow from the soil bed and set it in my hands. It rolled to its side, clawless, injured in the falling. Toss it up, my father said, maybe it will fly. The truth is, I bring my father to the poem only suddenly, to amend the law of his absence, and because my brother’s eyes are closed.