In the wee hours
mom comes to my bedside
and pretends to wake me.
Downstairs my crazy uncle
is talking quietly
into the void.
Overnight, the kitchen table
turns a bright blue
and no one ever mentions
cyanide poisoning.
She says: your father
is home.
He's okay.
She kisses me as if she's placing
postage on my forehead.
Deliver us from evil
they taught us to pray.
Then she leaves
behind a scent of baby powder
and forest fires.
If I had a brother
he'd turned to ash by now.
In the upper corners
of the room
the vultures shrug
in their shabby
second-hand coats
and lift off
one by one.
There's nothing they can do here.
It is the most
disappointing moment
of my life
to that point.
I will sleep for another thousand years.
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