he calls at seven pm to tell me.
when i see “dad” on the screen i get nervous –
he calls when someone dies, the only
thing he thinks isn’t proper to say in an email.
it is a process of elimination: not mom, she just
texted me an hour ago. not brother, mom would
call first. answer.
grandpa hank finally died. died in his sleep.
heart had been beating only 35 times a minute
for weeks. a medical mystery how he lasted this long.
tongue feels like a trowel in my mouth.
he says, we both know it isn’t.
tongue starts to dig its way down my throat.