Meatballs Poem by anais vionet

I talked with my parents this morning (they're in a time zone that's 6 hours ahead) . I'll be off, back to school, before they get back. They sound very tired, certainly tireder than they did a month ago.

They're working with "Doctors Without Borders" somewhere in Poland. We have a fiction between us, that they haven't been in a war zone for the last couple of months, spending 16 (18?) hours a day, in ineffable, meatball surgery - sewing pieces of people back together.

Although our conversation topics are no more important than soap bubbles, they evoke a kaleidoscope of emotions (in me) , our mutual deceptions as fragile as eggshells.
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*meatball surgery = quick, lifesaving, emergency-surgery so patients may survive.