Once they dislodged the clot blocking blood

from my mother’s brain, her voice sprouted like

plum tomato vines. Each morning a ripe truss of

vowels, then two-syllable words. By the fourth

visit she recalled each child’s birthday & the

six-pound chicken in her fridge. Honey, don’t

let it spoil. That night, she scraped an extra cup

of green jello while Vanna White dragged black

letters from many rectangular voids. Though I

can’t say for sure. But that’s what she told me

over the bedside phone, in less words, as I lay

spatchcocked, sinking into the worn sofa, her

low-rise condo choked by rosemary & thyme,

a braised memory of flight buried inside me.