Eleven years ago, on Mother’s Day,
after the last surgical tube was out,
I wept with weak relief.
Repaired,
I lay upon that bed
and knew without a doubt
that I am built like everyone –
my heart right here and liver there –
and I like they will die someday,
but that stay was a part of life –
my death will come another way.

Eleven years ago, I was renewed
and sent away from pain to be alive.
My renaissance began and I have viewed
it since progressively: at 35
I found the room behind the kitchen bricks,
and I’d moved into it, by 46.