The Grudge

When he died he weighed sixty pounds,

the paper says, and I go out of my way

to drive by the address where his brother

locked him in the closet, wondering at

the blue door, the flower boxes,

wondering where the fury started ,

how early and how hidden the first bruise

awaking like a bat, dark wings beating like mad

beneath his skin, the grudge pretending

to fold itself and go to sleep. Years later,

some old random gesture startles it awake.

For instance, when Esau finally staggers home,

hypoglycemic, clothes torn, hungry,

Jacob sees his chance. He buys

the old farm from his brother for a crockpot

of lamb stew. Jacob would tell you

how, from the beginning he was the oldest

anyway. We were twins , he’d say reasonably,

stirring the soup, Esau poked his finger out

first so they tied a red thread to it

But I was the first one out! Me! There are records

to prove it. It’s hideous, when

you think about it, how everything followed

from that. You would like Jacob. Quick,

witty. He would flick his coat open

to show you the grudge, nursing like a bat.