A wisp of a woman
on a white trampoline
bounces up and up and up
in precarious joy—
the news is good,
the treatment is working,
he’s in remission—
But in my bones
I know.
Her son
will die before she does.
Whoever was holding
the ends of the hammock—
medical science,
magical thinking—
has let go.
My son
almost died.
I didn’t have to see myself
smaller and smaller
riding cold lake waves
far out
to the remote
gray-green
island of grief.
INSTANT NOODLES 