My mourning is quiet, stealthy like the pausebefore bad news. An inherited trait near as I cantell. All the men in my line are instinctually stoic &hidden—brackish bodies, damned at the gates.My last uncle just passed away, also of cancer,and with my brother Tyrone I discuss this too as inheritance—annual X-rays to hunt what would prey on us.Memories surface of fishing tripsand nickel poker, except my grief has substitutedhis face for Tyrone’s and dad’s for mine.What am I if not mane,if not king,        if not crown & control& grass-shadow eyes hidden?My son’s first time sinking a hook in ocean waterwas with him just a few months ago and we splita can of High Life and hovered over the entrailsof a sausage sandwich and laughedat everything and he was the last of his brothersand the closest thing to seeing dad again—I breathedeep and slow like a big cat when blood is in the airor ground, drop the phone on the bathroom floor,slide down the wall against the shower doorlike an avalanche crashing down a glass mountain,head cupped in open palms & become a prayerbuilt on bad knees, become swingingjaw—unhinged, become throttle & throat &roar,                    remembering my pride.