on the phone is a small voice.
my father calls my mother by her first name-
a title he reserves for when the world stops turning.

he is 18 hours ahead, sobbing to his wife
in a past day, and i can see his tears
dripping off his chin onto his lap,
smeared with blood and bile.
"he left us, thi,
my big brother."

her eyes flutter, she remains still and hesitant,
like ripe fruit trembling in fear of squall,
"he went happy, you were with him"
sybilline phrases or wishful-thinking prayers
echoing in his crumbling cavern heart.

he comes home the next week,
wearing his dead brother's jacket as if it were
a second skin he wishes he could live in.
he pulls it tight around, even though we are inside.

his hands are so gnarled, the knuckles of his fingers
like oak tree rings.
when he sees me looking at my own inherited dry palms and ashen wrinkles,
touching the life line to my wrist,
he presses the bark to my face
and says nothing.