1. 1934, Germany

You, in your linen dress, must be three,

your brother, in his lederhosen, two.

Your arm rests around him

like he’s your best pal, and he is,

or will be. His face is yours, only magnified —

his head, watermelon, to your cantaloupe.

You hug him to you while you smile slyly,

your brother, mesmerized.

Maybe the photographer hung a sausage

or a stuffed elephant, something,

that his lens could capture such innocence.

This is when you had time to pose,

smiles that could not imagine

a warm November night —

the shrieks,

the ash,

the black eagles striking glass.

      2. 1951, Miami

Tanned, you stand side-by-side,

your arm reaches around his back.

He’s the taller now, your “little brother”

You, a young beauty, he, boyish, still.

Squinting, still looking twinned,

glass shards, more than half your young lives ago,

you both look happy.

      3. Crystal ball

You won’t go to medical school,

even though you long to,

but your brother, like your father, and grandfather, will.

Instead, you’ll tackle Fermat’s last theorem

and fend for yourself.