The night after your brother dies
You hear him singing in the bath
The gentle slosh of water
against the enamel wall. He is singing
Here Comes the Sun in that dogged way of his

You stand beside the bathroom door, your
hand resting on the handle,
waiting for him to finish the tune
not that you could really call it a tune
because he can’t really sing.

 You stand there in attendance
wide open with grief on the wrong side of the door
on and on until dawn.