Between the broccoli and the curry
comes the flash and disappearance.
Then the wondering, what’s next?
The screams, like a tsunami’s wail just out of sight.
The pain, better, when it comes, has bright hard dimensions
like a gutted swimming pool.
All I have to do is climb this side to that.
It’s not like the waiting, which is forever.
There are stains on the carpet and I can’t remember why.
It’s bothering me now and I don’t know about that either.
The stains are black but less black than other
things. Maybe that’s it.
You say he packed his suitcase and he won’t be back.
My brother and I huddle at the table and cry. Not because
he’ll stay away. He won’t.
Because we are supposed to do something but
we don’t know what.
Later I will try to write a poem. Many times and
I won’t because I love you.
But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.