After my Mother's Hip Replacement Surgery We Gather Around Her Heart
Before the lamp, my father lifts
to be ivy looping over the branches
He hands me my mother's heart,
was—has vanished. No more
only the supposition—
my mother's heart
He wanted her
that would open, tend her
away. I offer hair—
I collect to match my father's,
from her daughter's
of beak—remember the raptor
only focuses on what below reveals.
Hold Fast to Mother's Spine
This morning she aches for a beach walk
thin grain of sand below her
horizontal expanse where water animals emerge
effortless. This morning, they'll prove her disc prolapsed, pop
the slide onto luminescent screen, slide their fingers over
runaway dorsal captured on MRI. They'll say surgery.
She'll see an ocean splitting wave. They'll say nerve block.
She'll see shore dolphins, faultless backs cresting.
Natasha Kochicheril Moni is a naturopathic medical student. Her poetry appears in journals including DIAGRAM, Indiana Review, and Verse. Her debut book, The Cardiologist's Daughter, is forthcoming from Two Sylvias Press. website
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