Sounding

How to mother these
little words. How to word
these little matters. How

little these words matter.
My brother and mother died
this summer, two of seven


billion, two of a hundred
seven billion who ever
breathed. Two of five.


This summer I mothered
my brother’s death; I
brothered my mother’s


cancer. Two on one
of a hundred billion
planets in a barred spiral


galaxy. We’re all
rounding errors. Miracles
of error. How little


these words, these errors
I try to sound
on a line. Brother, mother.


Read on . . .

Aubade to a Collapsed Star,” poetry by Keith S. Wilson