Cassiopeia

Meanwhile, somebody else's grandma spoons coldbutterscotch pudding to her lips beside your own grandma.

They prefer custard but won't complain to the nurses.Revolutions happen elsewhere. The once beloved's face

becomes fatter, the moustache greasier, and it is the leastyou could have hoped for, but it doesn't satisfy.

Your brother is doing well because you have adjustedyour definition of "well." He wakes sober in a house

of sober men. They eat dry toast and he drives to the tinyCape Cod airport to wave his arms around and drag

cigarettes, the heavy weight of himself, and duffel bagsfilled with souvenir driftwood and bathing suits

along the tarmac all day. The Vineyard people offerpinched smiles to his dropped R's and the desire to feel

another, very particular way plays beneath eachmoment like Muzak. He resists. How noble,

to resist. How unlike the gods. Meanwhile, the mortalsare fasting. Your sister listens to the same screech

on repeat and walks along the White River seeingonly the stones beneath the low, clear water, surprised

by its sting when she kneels and leans to pressher face against their shine. She has not cut her thighs

in weeks. And you go on not calling your brotheror grandmother, sobbing each time you fold clothes.

Elsewhere, sickness spreading is one way bodiescommunicate. Your mother sends a card

with some money in it, says her husband is dyingso slowly he seems fine. You make the same corn salad

for a different set of dinner guests, put on Nebraskaone more time. Meanwhile, the constellations. Cassiopeia

hanging upside-down from her throne and you on Earthjust gawking, wondering what kind of person you are,

and if you'd be the one to open up your armswhen she's no longer able to hold on.