My five brothers and sisters halt
their orchestra of silverware,
stop chewing in mid-bite,
as my father, after a day of hospital
rounds and thirty patients, sweeps
all 80 pounds of me out of my chair.
I want to say, “It just slipped
right down!” but the pot roast
is a fist lodged in my throat
and milk burns my nostrils,
drips out into the air I gasp for.
Was this like my first breath?
We whirl the corner,
pass the jury of coats
hung on two rows of hooks
on the wall. My father,
comfortable with saving lives,
had he time for a closing statement,
would beg now to save
part of his own.
We charge the sink, blood
pumping my face. I am
dead weight, soulless,
below angels that float
in light, left to the final judge.
Shreds of meat and milky potatoes
splash the sides, the verdict
announced in the air that rushes
my lungs. With his surgeon hands
still pounding my back,
I am born again to my father.
Published in South Carolina Review