Last night I arrived <br /> a few minutes <br />before the storm, <br />on the lake the waves slow, <br />a gray froth cresting. <br />Again and again the computer voice said <br />you were disconnected <br />while the wind rattled <br />the motel sign outside my room <br />to gather <br />its nightlong arctic howl, <br /> like an orphan moaning in sleep <br />for words in the ceaseless <br />pelting of sleet, <br /> <br />the night falling <br />to hold a truce with the dark <br /> <br /> In the Botticellian stillness <br />of a clear dawn I drove <br /> by the backroads to your house, <br />autumn leaves like a school of yellow tails <br />hitting the windshield <br />in a ceremony of bloodletting. <br /> <br />Your doorbell rang hollow, <br />I peered through the glass door, <br />for a moment I thought <br />my reflection was you <br />on the otherside, <br /> staring back, <br />holding hands to my face. <br /> <br />It was only the blurred hold of memory <br /> escaping through a field of glass. <br /> <br />Under the juniper bush <br />you planted when your wife died, <br />I found the discarded sale sign, <br /> <br />and looked for a window <br />where you'd prove me wrong <br />signaling to say <br />it was all a bad joke. <br /> <br />As I head back, I see the new <br />owners, pale behind car windows <br />driving to your house, <br /> <br />You're gone who knows where, <br />sliced into small portions <br /> <br />in the aisles of dust and memory.<br /><br />G. S. Sharat Chandra<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/brother-68/
