the brittle words over
the telephone:
“cancer”
“lymph nodes” “metastasized” “radiation” “intensive
care”
Hanging
up, the house is very still,
and I wait for something to break
A woman in Chicago
monitored by machines after surgery
is sleeping
and
I, by myself,
look
for solace
in
the empty room
News
of the woman
came
over many miles.
The
family, together in the shock,
pulled some strings
and it was a unit
for a time
My
solitary state
became
its own indictment
Alone with the news
broken in bits and pieces all around me
I sit staring at the room
as if it were new
as if something tangible should be different
now
But instead
all is utterly unchanged
and even the silence was whole
Of necessity
I take
from the closet of my mind
the dustpan and broom
and sweep up
