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.