My mother washes fruit

with vinegar. She stands

at the sink, weighs grapes

in her hands. My father

rolls the sliding door shut,

talks softly to the birds.

Outside the grass is straining.

The phone is silent in its cradle.

Sometime later today my brother

might call, and then my other brother.

I paint and though I am grown

I watch for any approval.

No one looks. I dip my brush

and sadness blooms blue

in the glass. This silent family,

this loose collection of disciples,

all of us betrayers? Mama!

Mama! We’ve stared down the tomb

since we both were small, can’t we

teach each other to refuse?

How can I tell you that all this

pain, too, must be resurrection:

anything we say about it

will never be enough.