First in Line

The phone buzzes at midnight, a frantic hum

against the nightstand’s wood.

It’s him, asking about salt and soda water,

his voice thinning out like cheap paper.

He spilled a glass of red on the rental carpet.

I give him the instructions like a recipe for a bomb,

knowing he’s holding the phone with one hand

and rubbing the stain into a permanent bruise with the other.

I’m still wearing the heavy coat of the firstborn,

the one I outgrew ten years ago

but he still expects me to button up for him

whenever the wind starts to pick up.