Her fingertips were icicles within
the pocket where his shoulder met his neck.
She shocked him into consciousness with skin
as cold as water on his face. The wreck
of sleep was pushed aside; my brother rose
from rumpled sheets, from dreams of catch or chase.
And having waked him, Mom laid out his clothes
and left him with frustration on his face.

Our mother was abrupt. Her normal mood
was brash, impatient, practical and quick.
So how she woke my brother up was rude,
and I agreed when he said she was sick.
But now I know there’s no soft way to make
a dream-determined sleeper come awake.