Tonsillectomy

With lyrics from Gregory Porter

Before the doctors stole his tonsils,

my brother would silently bob his head

in our blue Jetta while musicians crooned.

The men were middle-aged, jazzy, confident,

with skin the color of toasted walnuts and eyes

like cereal bowls: fulfill my precious dream

to bring blues from America to the French African queen!

There were so many reasons to weep.

All week

I have been groggy and ill-tempered. My brother’s

tonsils (“biggest ones we’ve seen!” the doctors said)

sit forgotten like rotting fruit in a sterilized jar

in a hospital hours away from home.

“Finally,” he says. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.

Finally, I can sing without pain.”