Just turbulence, the doctor says,
blood swishing and clicking
through your valves
like wind manhandling
a plane. Concentrate,
another woman says,
on your trapped and
thudding heart as you think
about your father.
Luggage of organs
judders in cargo
blamelessly. Maybe
it’s pilot error, maybe
the weather, never
the child in the window seat.
An adult can imagine
unlocking the hatch. A breeze
whooshes in, passengers
climb out, aged
by the chaos but mostly
free now, shedding layers,
having arrived at a plain-
spoken safety where clouds
hurry innocently past.
Decades later I was still
watching my father kick
my sister, drag her down
the basement steps, or,
across a plastic centerpiece,
slap her at the dinner table,
while watching my mother watch
from behind the kitchen island
where she kept the baby safe.
Laminated cherry. Any knots
were sanded smooth.
Now I imagine floating off
but, beyond her barricade,
my ghost mother senses
the shift. My sister too.
Their bloodless faces swivel
toward me, the blowing trees
in their eyes gone quiet.
Threads tying my heart to theirs
go taut and catch the light.
Across those wires
hums responsibility.
How to unpick the scene
when the table’s inside me?
Each workday’s a web, as if
I owe my students as much
as I can pay. I’m called
to meetings about who has a vote,
who gets to stay, always
seated at a deadwood shine.
Scissors gleam in my pocket but
I fear snipping those lines
would be the end of love,
would mean I deserve
the plates of shame I’m served.
Freer than most. The strong one.
