Donna Isaac

“It’s not like losing an arm,” she’ll say
or something along the lines of
“They continue to get me in trouble,”
but her heart’s not so good you know
since the nurse left her alone
and she had another attack
right there in the raised bed
so I worry when she says
it’s a death sentence though
my cousin tells her, “Look what
you’ve survived already,”
which is true but she’s not
a cat that lands on its feet
in fact she doesn’t really like
cats so that idea doesn’t
figure in so much so the only
thing to do is to be there
when it’s being done or undone
as the case may be and since she’s
of an advanced age she’ll be wiser
about it all and not look down
at the front of her shirt with
its pucker of fabric with
sadness but with some wonder
maybe nostalgia and anger
like she does when she looks
at pictures of her ex with the duck tail
who used to run around on her with
the neighbor lady and who
left her with four growing sons
who all stand around her post-op
like biologists peering in a petri dish
and they keep asking her, “Do you
want a turkey sandwich?”