I was comfortable in bed,
Sunday morning’s as a kid
in the blooming heat
of a late Spring morning.
I could hear the phone ring
and my mother move slowly
to answer.
Muffled conversation beget
an anguished cry and
hustled words of consolation.
I couldn’t make it out from the noise.

I didn’t quite care because of
the hangover aches that
wracked the young limbs in
atrophy of the body and of the soul,
instead keeping eyes closed from
the light in the window and rolled
into a drifting sleep.
It wasn’t until I re-awoke
and staggered to the kitchen
that I saw her shaking her head,
crying slightly atop the kitchen counter.
A quick glance upwards with
tears renewed in strength.

Death need only come in quick,
effortless seconds upon a blackout night.
Hell need only come in a phone call
and a mother’s terrified explanation.