Even Though You’ve Gotten Used to Calling Me Your Brother

Even though you don’t
text me about God anymore,

I hear you offering up your grief
to him in the silences between us
while we hike up the side of a mountain.

If I could unravel your hands
stitched together in prayer
I would lead you down

to the unholy meadows that have been
blooming for two years,
ever since I came upon water
and decided they deserved a chance.

Would you see all this life and still
warn me I might as well be choosing death,
defying God’s plan like this?

After the hike we go to the ocean.
I could call it a baptism of my chest
so you understand, but you mourn
your sister with your back to me.

I run onto the sand looking down,
watching the ocean flow in rivulets over
my chest scars taut and full of sun.


Kapono Asuncion is from Minnesota and of Hawaii. They hold a B.S. in Women and International Development, a B.S. in Economics, and currently live in London, England where they attend the London School of Economics and eat a lot of halloumi. Previous publications include the Feminist special issue of Sonder Midwest and The Remington Review.

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