In Gettysburg

the grass was tired, so we drove instead.
Lincoln, Carlisle, E Stephens

to the Coster Avenue Mural
where we parked and my brother

stuck the end of a plastic arrow
to the passenger-side window,

suction cup locking long enough
to focus pressure on the glass,

to breathe in, breathe out, release
before he re-stuck it to his forehead

hilt first as if. Take that off!
Cap badge. Wound that demanded

the weapon be wrenched free,
that blood begin to surface

in a concentric circle.
We circled the cemetery and found

a gift shop, miniature license plates
that read Jim, James, and Jimmy,

checked out with nothing
as my brother was asked about his injury:

separated by fifteen years, too young
to remember the word ‘suction,’

he showed instead of told,
then reconsidered. It’s an affection thing.