flight
The heart surgeon who spread
the frail birdcage
of my mother’s chest
didn’t understand
about old wings.
Or he’d have known:
to fly one last time
matters more than anything,
even coming back.
He stepped into
the waiting room,
said “I’m sorry,"
like it was news.
So I knew he had looked
the wrong way,
perhaps at his mute machines,
when my mother flew away.
© Jo Deurbrouck, 2000
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