Wet sheets meant he slept inside a tub
in the bathroom by our bedroom.
I’d listen as our father cut the light,
left him staring at the objects
reemerging, molded out of midnight’s
shame-filled clay, his eyes adjusting
until bottles of shampoo, conditioner,
stood up straight, loomed on the rim,
looked down like little judges.

I spread the quilt our mother made
into the tub I bathe in now, lie down
on this, pull it taut around me.
Tonight, I’ll know him better than I do
at Christmases, at bars in Charlotte,
from the little truths that flame
with drink, and my brother buys
drinks for all, all night long, as if to say
I’m sorry to a room that doesn’t care.

Drain at my ear, I know who’s below,
quiet as crying that won’t come out,
but wagging his finger still,
although I have stood by his grave
believing death is an end.
This is hurting you, my wife says,
and the tone twists the cap from
what I’ve become, pours out
a little of what the years poured in.

I push myself up, go to play bass
but can’t plug it in so late, can’t let it
pound against the walls. Pound them,
Marshall. I’ve tried to talk to you.
Your face is a door with no handle.
It isn’t right how you died
in those rooms, how some things
nail up boards around us and we
don’t even recognize they’re there.