Survival of the Fittest
When my mother was four she broke
her nose in a horse and carriage
accident while escaping pogroms
and possibly the plague, chanting,
I had a little bird, its name was Enza,
I opened the window and in-flu-enza.
I inherited her broken nose, hooked
at the end, off-center, the bridge bumped,
the injury genetically coded for future
generations. They had no phone
to call for help or insurance for surgery,
just dusted themselves
off and found another buggy.