Panoramic Panic

There are twelve steps for you to take.

Twelve. My exact age that night baby panic pushed curse words from momma’s mouth.
And from her hand, a coiled cord uncurled toward the telephone. 
It rubbed against the kitchen doorway, 
conducting a symphony of emotional landscape:
a Panoramic Panic. 

Twelve. The number of miles you rode
blacked out from alcohol poisoning. 
In an ambulance. 
Your bleak burrowed heart, 
Beatless.

Half a lifetime in, you missed a beat. How messy the affairs have been.
I wonder if you even notice. 

I used to clean up messes–  
leftovers from a deceased body. 
Blood dried. 
Rope tied. 
Furniture knocked out of place. 

You recently pled me into cleaning up another–to hold your secret. To cover for you.
I suppose there are plenty of coves I could boat out to and stuff them in. 
Or roll them into a bottle and toss them out to sea. 
There are many places, I can think,
to tuck away and hide your shame.

Twelve. The number of months November brings since I last visited Pennsylvania. 

It was from you I first learned how to tidy up–how to carefully organize. 
Compulsion matures alongside us both. 
It has grown into something not so easily swept away.
The clean-cut cold truth is that I am holding my breath for
when it comes time to clean up your lifeless body. 

Momma’s eyes stuck at always about to cry. 
Your daughter left without a father. 
And I without my only brother.