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The cat’s paws brush through the letterbox, looking for some jellied meat or an opening in the family Cat pushes a letter through the door The letter marked JH Ottessa, dead brother of mine My brother’s bedsheets still warm-sweaty My brother’s paw prints dented into the doormat Rain water falls heavy from the gutter makes me look up, makes me remember what day it is what time it is I call my little girl’s name Annette A        eh Annette A        eh voice through the wall, and the echo of her name, Annette, from the other side Her face screwed up fingers in ears not to have to hear, Annette, all the damn half-hour of the morning of all the days to be playing up the day of the funeral day late for church day   But a child can grieve, let the child be grieving, let the child        be   Eight years old were you brother? And I a bit older I see you running down the street, a sun-blazed strip lined with flowers begging for water, petals blown-out hearts It was a day with corn, heavily spiced and salted Smoke and charcoal Nice Heat beating a path into our bones, our brows wet You had a rug tied round your neck with garden twine, lying out in the sun charge up charge up, before flying off, past the street light, past the telephone wire, past the aeroplane Almost choked yourself to death I stretched out a hand to you, hooked onto a gate latch – the lynch mob’s latest victim, to save you from a strangling You hit my hand away And again Something in your eyes said this isn’t a game But I pulled you up pulled up out of the fire, that time, my hand melting into yours   The church is cold Warmed with bodies, they sitting on they heels        huh        sitting in the dirt        huh        rocking on they legs, mouth open moans we perform the wailing of the milk, divide up the ashes, and return to our        leaking gutters   You were fifteen you were fine, then acting strange