So Fingertips Kiss

Five kids, eight years. Then
one June day my wife shouts
to me on the mower
roaring in the yard:

“I’ve had enough.”
And like a ballerina,
she rises on one foot, sole
of the other foot firm

against her knee.
With arms overhead
so fingertips kiss,
she smiles,

pirouettes,
and like a helicopter
lifts into the air,
clears the garage

and keeps rising.
I can do nothing now
but curse
and be proud.

As if at the ballet,
I clap from the mower
and await the explosion
as she hits the sun.

Donal Mahoney