This knows. This traces the broken web where each is lost to the many and little is known. And nothing is known once each is boxed in the ground, locked away and silent, finished with goings-on. But this knows, this was never boxed away but wrapped in a ragged cloth by the father’s hand. Born still, nixed in the womb, flesh kept warm in the mother’s blood, keen to the brother’s heartbeat, him born to wailing life and active limb.