As we sit down to dinner the call comes in—
your sister complaining he’s going to begin

his fast, his thirst, his theft—
his theft, not just of his own life—

he expects you, your sister too
to drive 600 miles to his rural domain
to preside over his death.

The sky clouds over, obscures the sunset.
Distant thunder cracks the horizon.

It’s July, your family’s month of death
anniversaries—your mother’s, your brother’s.

Your father quashed those inquests—
he sent them to ash before day’s end.

Over the salad—a collage of peppers and beets—
you uphold a fork to your mouth, I hold your hand.

Neither of us speaks until you read aloud
the sparse obit he had composed for himself,
in French.

Outside curtains of rain
close in on our house,
drench.