In My Room

 

23151 Schroeder, East Detroit’s

where I grew up, and where my mother died.

She died in my old bedroom, my youngest

brother, Bill, sleeping down the hall.

Did he cry?—who wouldn’t?  I was away, again.

 

Not that I never visited. A week before she died

I brought her ice in a paper cup, stroked her

cold, hard forehead, told her how much

I loved her. She couldn’t talk.

I don’t believe she recognized me.

 

When was the last time she did?  I had

to think. That night

I slept on the floor, beside her bed,

and listened for a groan or a sigh or a call.

I never wept, because I’d never wept before.