Reach

Your mother died; it was raining.
You took your truck down 74

parked on the shoulder

stretched out on the hood

and opened your mouth

like a newborn.
People stopped to help,
assuming there had been an accident.

Refusing to dry off,

you slumped into bed
a wet rag, instantly still,

like the raccoon we found
behind the shovels last March.

I almost touched you then,
but recoiled, drenched

by the echo of your whisper in that cold garage,
“Is it dead?”