Dry Heat

Mary Izzo

Brain Surgery at St. Mary’s

i.

That was the week it didn’t stop snowing,

the whiteness falling on the farms of upstate New York.

And where the highways fill with tired commuters

coming home from the city

power lines snap under heavy branches.

At the end of my street, a tree lays its body on the sidewalk

while Mozart plays throughout the operating room,

the whiteness sings:

Keep dancing toward the finish line.

ii.

I see a snow cat looking up at the sky,

twitching his head, saying “Help me.” 

We share the same extravagant tiredness,

dreaming of where mice might gather

at our feet, pointing to dark corners

through mazes that lead to a brightness

full of grace and freedom.

iii.

The surgeon’s instruments glitter

under thousand-watt whiteness.

My skull opened on the table.

My brain exposed to everything that could go wrong.

Now an eternity lives inside the silence of that tree – 

Something is running, running

through the snow . . .

I do not have the strength to quit. 

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