My brother comes to me

They are at the red gate
of my grandmother's white house
The gate is taller than them both
The mother, who is my mother, is holding her son's hand
The boy, who is my brother, is only four years old
She, our mother, is going crazy
She wants to take him with her
A blood stain has spread permanently on my brother's white shirt
I am at the steps of the house, like a bride
I am fifteen and calling to my brother, "Come to me"
Her teeth are bared They are not pearls
"I am your mother," she shouts
We are all crying and all our tears are all different
Our mother's hair is a flame above us

Typhanie Yanique, Wife (Peepal Tree Press, 2015)