My brother hugs

as if he can still hear his oxygen monitor 

constantly beeping in the room

where it smells faintly of rubbing alcohol 

and baby shampoo

back in the fluorescent-lit hospital 

where the lights are never off

as if he would be whisked away to be placed 

into another clanging machine 

where the stinging pains pang constantly from blood 

draws and failed IV lines

on the tiny immobile arms of a helpless baby

as if to turn and leave for another room, your lungs

would deflate like balloons.

When my brother hugs, there would be 

no cuddly bear hugs, no celebratory confetti

of clawed fingers, he hugs as if to climb back

inside the womb, burrowing his head into your chest

so that your body can envelop him

and your warmth will dissolve into a syrup of condensed 

milk inside his throat, as if while he embraces you

a stranger is coming to take you both.

My brother hugs as if he never left

as if somewhere,

there is a trap made of plastic

waiting for him.