Five kids, eight years. 

And then one day my wife 

shouts to me on the tractor

roaring in the field:

 

“I’ve had enough.”

And like a ballerina,

she rises on one foot, sole

of the other foot firm

 

against her knee

and with arms overhead

so fingertips kiss,

she smiles,

 

pirouettes,

and then like a helicopter

lifts into the air,

whirls over the garage

 

and keeps rising.

I can do nothing now

but curse

and be proud.

 

As if at the ballet,

I applaud from the tractor

and blink at the inferno

as she hits the sun.

 

— Donal Mahoney