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.
