Waiting

machines tick and whir.
muffled voices speak

behind face masks.

bright lights 

that my boy can't see

make his white skin glow

and his long black eyelashes 

gleam.

one side of his brain

is exposed now.

a flap of skin hangs 

and a piece of skull sits

in a stainless steel dish 

nearby.

his chest rises and falls.

surgeons work 

under hot lights 

with steady hands.

my son does his part

and stays strong.

the angels surround

and guide a surgeon's hands.

his father and I 

leave our bodies waiting

in soft black chairs

in the lobby

to hover

in the operating room,

where we silently watch

and protect.