It falls in fat droplets that go splat
like we all will someday. It cools my face
with something like the tears brought on
by Richard Siken’s new prose poems
and by seeing my dad after his stroke,
his hand swollen like a catcher’s mitt
and jaundiced, his arm in a sling and all
scabby from cancer meds. Did I cry
seeing both of my sisters and my dad  

all together for the first time
since we all went to Grand Ole Opry
on his seventieth birthday nearly ten
years ago, my younger sister, Shirlena,
cussing like a Judd Apatow
character— “I swear now, it’s my new thing,”
my older sister, Melissa, bringing
eldest daughter energy, fussing, cooking,
self-appointed President of this crisis?  

Did I cry because we grew up
in Seattle, land of rain, coffee,
and Kurt Cobain’s flannel sadness?
Or did I cry because my dad will die
soon, and (not much) later, so will I?
My face itched. Did I cut it, shaving?
I felt like I looked like I’d gone
bobbing for apples, face dunked
in a pool that turned out to be my mirror.