3 A.M.

When I knocked over the lamp, I knew
he was dead. In the hotel room with his coma
on my eyelids, my hand woke up needing
light. As if flicking a switch would unstring
The last three days, and re-pin the sheaths of skin
I saw his body shed.

In the next bed my brother
Sighed and through the dark
I felt him turn his back to me and
knew that he wanted to touch my shoulder,
to reach an ember of our father
still flickering in my body.
But we were still stopped by
the sound of his words as he'd unpeel his
belt like a husk from his corncob body,
"You can't raise a boy to be too soft."