Lasagna’s perfectly done—
crisp along the edges,
soft center,
but Dad’s not here to eat it.
April’s still out with Gloria.
Mom and I sit at the table,
silent, paralyzed.
We leave the lasagna untouched.
Move to the TV.
60 Minutes is on.
Giuliani speaks about cleaning up
the crime in the city,
about the power of individual responsibility,
then a story
on the National Institutes of Health
funding new grants for AIDS research.
Mom murmurs about time.
They say with new money
they will have a better chance of
finding a cure.
Mom making an effort,
Dad considering the herbs,
April’s hopeful eyes—
I look into the Sunday night sky—
lights blink, planes glide
above boats slowly floating upriver
alongside cars zooming fast, uptown and down,
next to a park holding people—
time moves past me,
so many lives
suspended
inside this one moment,
my heart beating fast, breath shallow,
I can hardly feel
the difference between hope
and fear.