FLIGHT

by Tina Klimas


Is she still mother?

Restrained by IVs and
catheter bags and tubes—
she flies with the blue
of a jay, on the other side
of the glass. Inhales
earth and dying leaves,
perches on a wire.
Once a sparrow—part of
the workings of a flock—
now a jay—solitary
and shrill and waiting.
She becomes this jay’s
anguish—the void of what
is missing—the infants
swallowed by a bored feline
like an appetizer.

Was she still mother?

Sky, feathers—blue.
Leaves—red, gold.
Color—incandescent
like old-fashioned
ceramic Christmas lights—
shimmers through
the inconsequence of eyelids.
Because she knows now,
that she cannot make them
see this thing with the light,
she cannot share with them
this last thing—

is she still mother?

Agonizing cries surface and
recede. Theirs. Maybe hers. Or
the jay’s. But the blue is gone—
flown—and terror exposes her,
raw and gaping. She clutches
at the sheets. Her heart rusts,
like iron. Blood boils.
Fingers and toes snap off.
Her brain billows into
a great balloon. The world
tilts and her body will slide
into the abyss. And then—
the weight of an arm
across her chest. Warm feet
twine around her own.
A head nestles under her chin.
And she remembers—
the softness of baby hair,
making bunnies and ships
from clouds, gangly and graceful
adolescent limbs.

She is still mother.

She closes her eyes and sees
the blue jay wing away
to what happens next.


* * * * *

Tina Klimas's poems can be found in THEMA Literary Journal, Bear River Review, The Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, Backchannels, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Willows Wept Review, and Glassworks Magazine. Her short fiction has also been published in several journals. She enjoys her writing life in Redford, MI where she lives with her husband and their dog.