It wasn’t like the loss of
a beloved pet or a lost pair
of Nordstroms high heel shoes,
it was the absence of my
brother I’d always pined for
over the years. His words no
longer in my morning email,
his voice never there because
I could no longer reach him by
phone. I never knew if he still
ever thought of me or if his
Crohn’s Disease made him
quietly slip away; and now
every passing day I have
dreams of seeing him and my
family in Baja California
again. Would it be the same
I always wondered, or would
I be given a cold reception?
I think of the cards I sent that
intercepted him, my emails
sent his way wondering if he
or someone else ever read
them. I breathe in the stillness
of my unswept kitchen, wishing
for the years or a miracle to
bring us back together again.
Now I look at the broken lip
of my teacup, the tea inside
having grown half cold, and
I feel like a brittle rose about
to snap in two, my head bent
low.
Bobbi Sinha-Morey‘s poetry has appeared in a wide variety of places. Her books of poetry are available at Amazon.com and her work has been nominated for Best of the Net Anthology in 2015, 2018, and 2020 as well as having been nominated for The Pushcart Prize in 2020.
The Mantle 