Fractions Poem by Lisa Zaran

Years after your brother died,
and your mother, who always drank,
started drinking at 6 a.m. to dull
the pain. The accident hadn't
happened yet. You were not
yet a shadow of your former self,
addicted to pain pills, so thin
I could see your shoulder blades
through your tee shirt.

Would it have made a difference
if I told you then what I know now?
How our lives are being orchestrated
by a God we can not see or touch.
That we must have faith.
Faith in blank space, and trust,
that awesome word shaped
like a fist.

How many years would you say
you spent reciprocating a love
you never felt? Your father gone
to live in another State, remarried,
new kids. Your mother passed out
by noon everyday.

At the hospital, the place
we always swore never to end up,
your right leg strapped to a device
the nurse called a medical limb
support assembly. Your boyfriend
dead, thrown 30 feet after breaking
through the windshield.

Five years, ten, maybe forever?
It was great to hear from you
after so long. Yes, I'm still married
to that guy I told you about
the last time we talked on the phone,
each of us with a receiver cupped
to our ear, music in the background.

Just like old times, huh, Dee?
Hey, remember that time in Delbert's
jeep, Bono singing, where the streets
have no name, and we agreeing,
as we tossed our spent cloves
into traffic, drank our southern comfort
and didn't think about trust or faith
or God, only knew that we'd make it.