My mother must know it will kill him
(it was clear he was dying anyway)
when she pushes my father into the plane
to California, 3000 miles from home
and rings my door bell.
He does not want to be standing on
the doorstep of his least favorite
child, so hunched and plucked,
his dry, stiff wings closed behind him,
but he is still breathing and my heart
.
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