Downstairs my brother
quietly plays the keyboard
its voice dances
through the floorboards
into my bed, where it
pushes me from slumber

An unexpected nap
I wake up with a novel
held to me like a baby, suddenly
remembering how my eyes became
too heavy to finish the chapter -
even accidentally I become exhausted
closing things before I finish them

I have tried asking my anger
to give back my ability
to be open and to love -
she guards them more

she pushes them into
the lacuna that is my heart -
that space that accepts only
my blood and breath
and even still, rhythmically spits them out

There she is
kneeling in the only temple
she believes worthy of her prayers -
with snakeroot as white
as her hands, pulling at the Earth
to make space for fall -
where it matters most
where everything matters most
to her, in the garden

The word trying
stumbles from your mouth
I wonder how long it has been rotting
on the back of your tongue

In the next sentence
the word sorry
tiptoes across your lips
tries to find sympathy
in my gaze

I am choking
just as you are
finally learning to speak

Trying
Sorry
No

You set the table
making sure we both have
a napkin, two forks
and a knife

I spend hours
preparing a meal
that might be enough
to satisfy both of our appetites

we sit across from each other
I ask you to hand me the bowl

it is already empty
you are already full

You
always content
to leave me
starving

He stares out the smudged window
nose nearly kissing the glass
gaze committed to the tawny rabbit
who sits idly by the shed

He whimpers
fur rising on his back
turns his pleading eyes to me
as if to say

*Mama, I want to play
who cares that it’s raining?