No one really knows what a thoracic surgeon is.
Henry sits with other residents for a meal, his
head balding, side ruffles warming the skin
over his ears. Next to him, a woman chokes
on hamburger. He’s been waiting his whole life
for this. To get behind her, perform the maneuver
named after him. Abdominal thrusts the hamburger
from her throat. He smiles through his dentures
at the slick meat on the table. Eases the woman
back into her chair. No one knows he invented
a portable oxygen system, or created a flutter valve
that drains blood and air from the chest cavity.
He had to wait ninety-six years to do this.
Follow the directions he’d taught the world:
pinky finding belly-button, rolling up below
sternum, squeezing diaphragm until expulsion.
Now he packs his bags with the few pictures
of his family. Enters the kitchen and shrinks
down to action-figure Henry. After the cook
prepares the next meal, he enters into the steam
of tomato soup. When the woman he saved
slurps him into her mouth he rests in her esophagus,
her heart, her lungs. The places he’s always lived.