My mother and my brother are dead Dear sky—and the trainwhistle, far off in the mountains they will never see. Tender grass, beneath my feet. I bought new shoes after my mom died, horrible platform sandals, fluorescent pink—she would have h… Read on blog or Reader The Rising Phoenix Review Read on blog or Reader My mother and my brother are dead By Annie Freshwater The Rising Phoenix Review June 6 My mother and my brother are dead Dear sky—and the train whistle, far off in the mountains they will never see. Tender grass, beneath my feet. I bought new shoes after my mom died, horrible platform sandals, fluorescent pink—she would have hated them. I asked my tarot deck and pendulum for her advice, but the cards came up blank, and my pendulum is still spinning. My brother followed my mother, one week after he found her in her bed. I couldn't text him about the Chinese food place we found in Loveland, couldn't send him pictures of the first snowfall. He will never walk through these rooms. I will never call my mom on video chat to share a cup of morning coffee from this backyard. Dear sky— dark-eyed junco, indigo bunting, spotted towhee. I am the mute swan, choking on the bone of grief, while a three-toed woodpecker taps a mourning song on the cottonwood. By Annie Freshwater Biography: As a poet and novelist, Annie Freshwater explores the ways in which we populate our inner and outer landscapes with ghosts of our own making. She holds her BA in Creative Writing from the University of Redlands and her MA in English/MFA in Creative Writing from Chapman University, where she was honored with the John Fowles Center for Creative Writing Award. She is a lover of mythology, exotic houseplants, and dinosaur fossils. Comment

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