spilled into every corner of the house.
His emptiness evicted his feelings.
Emptiness chilled him through and through.
Our house became the house of held breath.
Our house became the house of tangible absences.
In the yard we planted a memorial tree.
Its growth rings recorded a thousand confessed remorses.
Nothing I tell father goes past his ears.
His void does not carry sound.
Mother, broom in hand, swept emptiness
to the living room and under the carpet.
The house thought it protected the world
behind hidden doors.
After a year, the emptiness was a thin layer
of ash and dust still warm from the furnace.
After a year, I answered when my parents
called me by my brother’s name.
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney