Part 1: Assassins

At thirteen, my brother
dreams of becoming a paid assassin.
He mimics violence — tries a roundhouse kick,
barely missing my head, slices an imagined machete,
his lips puckered to exhale explosions.
He sleeps with knives under his pillow.
His eyes remain trained on his computer,
even as we have a conversation.
I watch his little character somersault,
shoot at menacing aliens. "Here, try" he says.
I squeeze the trigger button once, again,
aiming the lasers with terrifying ease,
splattering green extraterrestrial goo
over the buzzing electronic landscape.

Part 2: Chinese Throwing Stars

My brother was caught on the bus today
with Chinese stars, little metal disks
with cunning grooves
designed to catch in flesh.

He carries them in the inside pockets
of his jacket and pants. He brags
he's gotten them through airport customs — twice.
Now I have to drive him to school.

He offers to show me how to throw them.
My brother puts the jagged circle in my hand,
showing me how to hold them so I don't cut myself,
and moves my elbow.

The motion's just like fly-fishing,
graceful and clean. The campy red dragon
smiles back at me from the face of the star,
jaws deep in maple bark.