Writing in Blood by Steve Klepetar She copies out a hundred poems, then does laundry in the big, tin tub. Next time she writes will be in blood. Her brother climbs a ladder to the roof, watches stars burn a path across the early winter sky. If he fell, she would bury him so deep the wolves would have to dig for days to find his mangled flesh. She owes him that and more, his firm hand stuffed into his shirt as though to hold the heart that must be tumbling from his chest. She hears blood throbbing as he stares at mysteries. What blue pulp, his eyes, what a handful of white teeth. His colors are pink and white, with orange calluses on the bottom of his feet. She marvels again at the size of him, his shoulders and his weight, all that solid bone pressing on shingles and struts. And still, somehow, he flies, light as a mindless thing, a wretched bird, warbling hard against the wind Gyroscope Review 38 !