Cranberry Sauce Provides an Improper Dressing for the Modern Turkey
       

One day post-Thanksgiving my mother delivers a eulogy
for collapsed structures.

The balcony splinters, turns away
from the bedroom, approaches the formal

living room below, while my father inside, waits
for his arteries to narrow.

The study of hearts only instructs
so much. How to mend

a pumping mass, preserve
what will not keep.

My mother wraps, unwraps
leftovers, addresses each dish with a dose

of plastic sheathing. Days ago, a miniature balloon
inside my father bellowed. And I arrived

at the understanding that we wouldn't be taking this balloon
ride together, or one with hot air, a basket

attached for human voyage. What constricts, dilates.

What empties, fills.

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Copyright © 2014 Natasha Kochicheril Moni All rights reserved
from The Cardiologist's Daughter
Two Sylvias Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission