“This is a full flight.” “This is a full flight.”
I struggled to see you behind your age.
Pursed lips sang tales of him;
Your hands deformed with age worked to your advantage
pointed fingers painting your story.
“Don’t shove your religion down my throat.”
You told me to call you Nana Sara(h),
“It’s crazy Rachel, it’s crazy.”
Shaking no, Waking yes.
How awestruck you were you’d found him.
Then you’d bleed and you’d bleed and your blood was contagious;
“It’s crazy Rachel.”
One shiny nickel you’d have given me.
You replace rocks for him, your King–remove dandelions, for him, your King.
Hiding under the covers at night, did you know then?
Watching you; you were Mork;
from bliss I caught you to wallow you’d whither
your arthritis held onto me.
You etched bullets into the corners of my eyes.
“This is a full flight.”
Did you know I would listen? What about me screamed speak?
Your words dabbled with ums, stuttered, frightened.
Fingers Fiddling with your Wrappers Wielded embarrassment.
The twisted turbulence you felt wrapped up beneath your wrinkles.
“You are breathtaking Sara(h).”
“I am Tom, I am.”