Poem with Tiramisu, Sibling Past Thirty-Eight by Jon Riccio

Feb 15, 2021
We eat at Olive Garden after learning if our father
had stronger kidneys a portion of his intestines
could have been purposed into a replacement bladder—
            the pouch / elimination toss 
			weighing on cancer-free lips.
My sister repeats the doctor’s credentials:
            University of Michigan.
                        Cleveland Clinic.
            The latter where Little Italy’s chalked cobblestones
                        spread like dominoes that make
             Mona Lisa or tableaus of extinct animals—
                        the quagga hogging tiramisu.
We hear ostomy in hospitaliano, worry
                        the surgical team members
                        are younger than us,

a zipper’s pull-tab beheaded of denim
	in the men’s room sink. 

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