Tears fill the bottom of this boat.
My tin can leaks. We are sinking.

The telephone rings
I hear her cry into the receiver.
I’m tired of being the receiver.

What about you? You’re family, too.
You, you, you (yes I’m shouting)
you stand in the shadow of her grief
longer than a coffin.
You try to find room for your
own sorrow. And by the way,
it’s your turn to inhale
the sour smell of her sadness.

I listen
God knows
God knows
I try to console her.

I’m cut off.
I hang up.
She has your number, too.

Nancy McLelland
Fall, 1999