Tuesday, February 4, 2014

Flight (When I was 15)

A helicopter carries my mother
to the next town where there’s a room
that can stem her bleeding disappointment.

I do not miss her gaping eyes,
how they rob me of nerve, my real self, 
or how her mouth whips the air into
storms and hail stones.

But for a time, when she returns,
chloroformed, my mother has no more 
longing for what she lacks. Her throat 
bursts at times with song, all her rancor 
and despair seems burned to ash 
in these cheery, most welcomed
holocausts and I want to throw some flowers

at her feet.