this is the bone

My mother wanted to be a doctor.
She crawled under the muddy foundations
of the shack she called home
and dissected the rats
that nibbled on her sisters' toes.
This is the bone. This is the heart.

My mother wanted me to be a doctor too.
But I inherited squeamishness from my father,
like I inherited his white skin,
and decided words held more power
than blood or vaccines.

She hasn’t left the couch in a week.
But I found her passed out on the grass Thursday.
Rain drops glistened on her face and
dampened her hair.
I hated how peaceful she looked and
whispered her name, fearing Death
would hear and truly find her.

She gasped awake,
like breaking the surface, like
rebirth. "The air
is fresher after the rain,"
she said, "the breaths
easier to take."  

I don’t know how to fix broken dreams
anymore than I know how to set broken bones.