Once, and only once, I read to him
in a car pulled over on the hard shoulder
on the Mountrath road, a stone’s throw
from The Wishing Tree, every word
of my brother’s diary, his suicide note,
the phrases in Dutch that meant ‘I will
soon be dead’, those marginal doodles,
little Golgothas, tiny crosses on stones.
While he smoked and couldn’t not hear,
locked in the car, I read to that last page
because this would be out last time together.
Neither of us knew what would happen next.
A son reads to his father. The world ends.
The son is driving. They are going nowhere.