Liver Failure

before

 Her bible lowered but not put down
she didn't turn from its pages;
half whispered her incrimination.
"You cannot make a crooked thing straight."
Then the long sigh.  It sounded like air
leaking from a low-pressure tire.  Soft.
Rustling like those onion-skin pages and
final: King James Versionesq. 

 during

 No one actually called it an intervention
Bobby had asked if we would order pizza,
in the serious tone he always uses;
sounds like a politician,
or a weather man
Like this was an Event.

 His affected voice wet, after he'd spit
out the nicotine gum he'd been chewing
like cud. He was a psychotic cow.

 She didn't even bother to answer
that no, we were not going to
order pizza.
She would not answer him; too busy
judging me.  Like he was my fault.

 I am not my brothers keeper.  

 Nor my father's son. 
She blamed me for that, too.
They both did. 
But my failure was not why we had gathered.

 Each, in turn, explained, implored
we did not want him to end up like Dad.
Or others his friends knew.  His sponsor just said
that he wanted him to live.
We all said we loved him. 
I lied.  Mom cried, though I'm not sure
for whom.  She called us
to pray, but we did not hold hands.

 after

 It is never surprising when a dying man
finally dies.  Her penmanship
was exquisite, I had always envied that.
The note was curt and made me realize
my sigh sounded just like hers.

 "Your brother is gone.
Do not come."