For Sicilians the Corsairs are always landing
on the beach, so the discomfort I feel
in my chest must be an impending heart attack.

My father before his heart surgery
spoke of plans and conversations,
confident the outcomes would follow
all the predictions of cardiac specialists
who’d finish up the last suture before lunch.

I hugged him and said I love you, Dad,
something I rarely did, trying to believe
as he did we’d have those long deferred
discussions after recovery. I never questioned
his optimism in the face of possible complications.

Was it wishful thinking in spite of cautions
raised by others about long hours under anesthesia,
or was it decades of watching doctor’s dramas
solving medical mysteries before the closing credits?

I want to live like he did, planning for
the next vacation, disregarding all the rumors,
all the storm clouds on the horizon. I’ll travel
overseas even though watchtowers are sounding
alarms on the coasts and I have seen the sails.