While I’m driving
I like to fantasize
about the people I love
dying in tragic
and gruesome ways.
My brother slips
off a cliff hiking and
they have to identify him
by his teeth.
My dad is driving
behind a lumber truck
when the boards come loose,
pierce his windshield
and he loses his head.
What a tragic figure I am then.
Orphaned, bereaved,
my heart
a fragile whisper
that needs your love.
Needs you to collect,
reassemble the pieces,
your mouth the glue
that makes me whole.
How tragic, then,
that I am fine.
Retired parents
spending their days gardening
in Connecticut,
fussing at each other over
who should have pulled the chicken
to thaw for dinner.
My brother called last week,
I congratulated him on his raise.
He makes more than me now,
but I have enough
to live alone, and
I’m only hungry
when I want to be.