You call to say your brother has died.
I'm supposed to be sad, I know,
but I can't. He wasn't good to you,
when you were young--he whipped you,
made you sit silent for hours.
But he's my brother, you say.
Then you tell how
in the all-night grocery store
you fell, and no one saw
or came to help. You waited
a while, then pulled yourself up
by a shelf you hoped was sturdy.
It's a custom in our family for me
to write a poem after every death.
I don't tell the truth in my poems,
you say, but here's what I think it is:
I don't care about my uncle,
I didn't love him, and I won't cry.
This is not the poem you expect,
I am not the daughter you want,
and you were never the mother I deserved.
This is the truth: I can forgive
the stitches in my head,
the burnt toys, everything else.
But I can't and won't forget.
This is also the truth:
I know how you felt in the store.
Your helplessness fills my hands,
the way it must have been
our first time, when I was born.