i’d had the first call
late in the morning.
my brother, the younger one
who i hardly talk to,
telling me ‘you should get up here,
matt. she’s really not good.’
i knew what it was
when the second call came.
i’d felt her go, ten minutes before
as i began the evening curry –
a small tug away from my chest,
like the last step of a long, formal dance.
the voice inside,
the one that gives me lines, said
‘stirring the onions,
my mother is dead.’
