our year in Geneva
high above the lake
where the Swiss are cold as ice
they demand cash up front
thousands of dollars
before I can stay with my child
the hospital room where he may well die
my husband’s employer pays
& I think, how powerless I am
inside the pale gray room
the intern is not Swiss
but a Swede, or a Dane
he’s human, & we wait together
it will be life or death
nothing to do but hydrate & wait
my hand on my child’s hot skin, I decide
what to do next — if he lives
I’ll stop being a wife
he lives, & later that same year
the motorcycle we’re riding
goes down — the driver, my friend Steve
my two boys, & I, we fly
& land, sprawled & unhurt
Greek women draped in black
emerge from bushes along the road
pat our body parts
feed the children bright hard candies
through skid & topple
all that long time we’re flying
I’m thinking, we’re happy
it’s okay if we die
