Your convoluted paper house
made of fragile tunnels, a network of flowers,
hive of papery straw wrappers, sunbleached like dead coral,
and you built that house pressed into the top corner
of the outcropped roof, above the pool,
reappearing every May or June
just as I was racing my brother
to tag the drain first this summer
We filled with terror
when you came flying in,
spinning in the air and playing your violin,
neon yellow and black and raging in the sky,
my head sucked under the water with a mouthful of air--
And was this the moment my youngest brother realized
if he exhaled before sinking,
he felt inexplicably calm
about staying underwater for good?
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