In the locker room, after a snowy track meet,
the seniors said I had pussybite as I cried
about the frozen fingers I swore had frostbite.

My older brother took my hands, said nothing
and forced them under cold water.  As he drove us home
in silence I wished I could say I was sorry
for embarrassing him, for showing other guys
our tears.  He turned on the radio and glanced at me,

as if for the first time, and I knew he could create fire,
hunt a bear, or force his footprints in stone.
Instead he smiled and said, This is a good song.