Passing the Bread

My brother called at noon from a parking lot,

his voice already past the crying part—

the flat kind, the just-reporting kind.

Don't tell them yet. I said I won't.

By seven I was at the table.

The soup was hot. My mother was talking

about the neighbor's dog, the one that barks

all winter, and my father was agreeing

the way he does when he's only half listening,

and the bread came around to me

and I passed it without taking any—

my hands for a second

not my hands.

Like they belonged to someone

being careful.

My mother asked if I wanted salt.

I said no, I'm fine.

The steam kept rising off her bowl.

Outside the kitchen window

the yard was full of cold.

Just the porch light catching the snow

and my face doing what it does,

agreeable, present,

holding.