Hospital parking lot, April

By Laura Kasischke Laura Kasischke
Once there was a woman who laughed for years uncontrollably after a stroke.

Once there was a child who woke after surgery to find his parents were impostors.

These seagulls above the parking lot today, made of hurricane and ether, they

have flown directly out of the brain wearing little blue-gray masks, like strangers' faces, full

of wingéd mania, like television in waiting rooms. Entertainment. Pain. The rage

of fruit trees in April, and your car, which I parked in a shadow before you died, decorated now with feathers,   

and unrecognizable   
with the windows unrolled   
and the headlights on   
and the engine still running   
in the Parking Space of the Sun.

Source: Poetry (October 2008).


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Poet Laura Kasischke

Subjects Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity