One of us is missing.
One or maybe two.
I count us on the fingers of one hand.

I was the eldest of six children. Please God, bless Mama and Papa and Katie and James and Helena and John and Isabella and me. It was important to me that we were six. It was important to all of us. ‘How many children are there in your family?’ We were competitive about it, slightly superior.

Somebody is missing.
Which of us is gone?

James is gone, and Katie. James shot himself in June, and in September Kate was drowned.


A Poet in Cuba
Skating with Lenin