Hospital parking lot, April

By 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.
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