My brother’s voice was a flat metallic wire

My brother’s voice was a flat, metallic wire.

He asked about the house, the lawyer’s fee.

I watched a moth on the sill, a small expired

scrap of lint that used to be able to see.

I said the word. It’s a short, sharp sound

that shuts the door and turns the deadbolt tight.

It keeps the conversation on the ground

and stops the ghost of us from catching light.

I reached out and touched the moth’s dead wing.

It turned to gray powder on the tip of my thumb.

A pile of dust that doesn't mean a thing.

I stood in the kitchen and let my mind go numb.