In Brooklyn, above Prospect Park, thick,
noisy sleep eludes us in July’s heat.

The air conditioner groans over and around
the traffic sounds. We walk outside afraid of

Beardless youths carrying chains and you, Mom,
clutching my arm, hustling, yet stopping to button

The navy blue sweater of a special-needs child,
grunting and pointing. Only you would understand.

No tears. No silence. Either as we completed the walk
to the hospital where Grandma lay in a starched linen

Gown, distrusting her catheter. I gasped and saw
a grackle hover in the smog and you and Aunt Bert

Urging Grandma to let it go. We all breathed
forth — hearing Grandma’s groan, and I caught

A flash of black — the bird’s descent.