The last poem I wrote before my mother died

The birds are awake already, he says,

the morning my mother will die.

 

What do you hear, I ask.

House Sparrows. They’re always

making noise.

 

We have coffee and scroll our phones,

wait for updates from my brother.

He’s with her at the hospital

 

in Jacksonville, where she saved

strangers’ lives as an RN before retiring

her own.

 

We can’t reach our middle brother.

He’s camping and out of service and

will never forgive himself. He is faultless.

 

Mom loves the way we live our lives, move

without fear of woods or waters, fly

over oceans and continents to find new

 

versions of ourselves.

My stomach rumbles and I learn

that a person can still feel hunger

on the worst day of their life.

 

The first poem I wrote after my mother died

In nineteen minutes my mom will have died

yesterday. I don’t have anything else

for you.