I had too much to dream last night

There are many people who have died in my sleep.
This morning my brother did. Dropped to his feet
on the phone and my mother cried god in a shop
and they wanted us to leave but put us on a sofa.

My mother has died twice. Both times I bought
a train ticket and soup and percussion about her
smoking and followed her knife across the butter
block and pushed her into a whole food shop.

Sometimes the dead are brought back from my bed,
my grandmother, barefoot, no make up, colours
clashing, smashed a mirror on my head. I called
my mother still living, she wept, said nothing.