For All the Half-Children

The first time someone referred to you
as my half-brother, I was confused.

A fork in the lightning is still lightning.

for C.

Portrait of Enduring Love as a Seasonal Haircut

Two years ago, my mother traded
thick ropes of kite string dreads
for an afro cloud of frost

during summer days when everyone
sweated underneath the burning apple
in the sky, even willow trees

awaited shaking off their heavy braids
for the first breath of snow. This year
I lent my gardening hands

for Mother’s Day. I mowed the cloud
with the grain & dabbed the vapor
off the bark of her nape.

Then, my sister trimmed the uneven
cirrus & raked with a pick, billowing
the living room floor. If anyone saw us,

they would’ve said, Look at the way
the earth is giving back rain to heaven,
in spite of all the gravity.

& when we finished, our mother
thunderclapped a hallelujah
at the cotton puff on her head

as we swept up all her winter
with naked arms that don’t shiver.

for M.L.

When You Hum, I’m as Happy as a Giraffe

Tonight is as dark as the back of a throat
and you’re playing my favorite song
behind your lips, mouth closed.
A song with no name, always
in the right key. The melody
and honey of your voice inside my ear.
No one at this dinner party deserves
to hear this music. Nor can they. They talk
of how good business is doing. New
skyscrapers, the stock exchange.
And the painter who died this year,
his collection now off the market.

Their empty words fill the empty air
and we’re saving our breath
for the two of us. Everything we know
about love we learned
from giraffes, who for ages
fooled the public into thinking silence
was as golden as their neck, or daylight.

Their own inside joke. Who knew the best
things are said at night. They say
I enjoy you and I’m here
in a perfect language without pretense:
a low hum, from one tongue to the next.
They were discovered by sneaky scientists
who spied on zoos—but who here would
think to care or catch on, my love?
So undress your words from any syllables
or the anchor of letters. Sing again,
my sweet one, while everyone is
asleep eyes wide open.

for M., the second poem
you’ve inspired.
Juan Wynn, Jr. is a poet living in New Jersey. He recently served as a consultant at the Bloomfield College Writing Center and will be interning at Get Fresh Books Publishing in January 2021. Currently, he is an educator in West Nyack, NY at a school you wish you went to as a kid. His three poems in Banyan Review are his debut publication.

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