For Jordie, and Erzi, and April
I don't know
who you carry in your name,
cousin, but the blush below your
deer-dark eyes halts me
like an unexpected kiss.
We named you halfway across
the alphabet, lest the Angel of Death
confuse the bridge of your smile
with her cheekbones.
They called your grandmother
luminescent, sparkling
and dry as wine.
When you were a baby,
she held you like a photograph
rescued from a house fire.
The last thing she ever told me
was how much she loved yellow.
We had sent tulips.
My mother had to translate
from post-stroke to ten-year-old.
You look alive when you wear yellow.
As you grew, your mother
bloomed through the trellis of your bones.
Your face became a garden
of peaceful coexistence,
of wisteria and honeysuckle
holding hands.
But my heart pauses
when it sees your picture:
those eyes. those eyes.
I'd almost forgive Death for his confusion,
if we'd given you her name.
No comments:
Post a Comment