When it’s night
and there are silver clouds
your mother is staring at the screen
clicking through pictures of bath robes and slippers
your father’s asleep as he’s always been
and you are sitting alone in your room
when you hear your name
spoken silver and soft
like the clouds that are rolling
and you look up
your mother's still scrolling through taupe tennis shoes
your father's still snoring as old men do
when you hear it as clear as a baby's smile
you hope it returns
that voice in your head
as much as it worries
and terrifies you
you hope it will call your name out again
though you know it’s a sign something’s terribly wrong
it is more real to you
than your mother
or father.