Branches Reaching

England, 1955

Ushers wearing white gowns part before the round stage,

brightly lit, ready for take off

glowing like a white snail on the trail of Mount Tam,

curved black line opening out against pearl.

Ravi Shankar sits in the center, Sitar resonating,

waves of sound a hand motioning.

Internal orange, oak tree branches, a brain

making a turn and then another, and

then follow with inner eye, elbows, then

cauliflower leaves emerging.

My mother is examined by Dr. Ravishankar

a woman in her early thirties

who speaks loudly

says you won’t be able to live alone

people have to watch her.

My mother hasn’t slept in two days

since found on her bathroom floor

incoherent, left side bruised

and flacid. And now, like a smudge on a mirror

she is seen as an old woman

the tree with its many branches

reaching incrementally.

Oak outside the hospital

a fifty year old brain against the sky

with roots that tip under a circular pathway.

Branches, metranomic fingers, grow,

pulse regular, blood circulating

late summer leaves a grey green.

The clot waited for this moment

after years of observation from a high balcony seat

opera glasses afloat, absorbing the drama.

Waited until now.