You say, "I was in a movie once.   A documentary about suicide;   about the people left behind.   It was for the CBC;   they still run it sometimes."      I picture you in a hooded shirt,   knees huddled up, eyes to the earth,   the questions long, the answers curt.   Shots of your brother are interspersed      between the silence and the doubt,   the things you still can't talk about.   When I approach the topic   you leave the room to go stare at the grey skies.      You go stare at the grey skies.      Now I'm thumbing through a TV guide,   overwhelmed by its current size,   in the unlikely hope I'll find   something the film may have that you cannot provide:      maybe a photograph of his face;   a memory you've tried to erase   with your gestures of sullen grace.   Because I can't believe that after all this time,   I still don't know his name.      the silence and the doubt,   the things you still can't talk about.   When I approach the topic   you leave the room to go stare at the grey skies.      You go stare at the grey skies.