Sister
How regally you sit
in funerary black—
a touch of blush,
collar, torn,
and lips, naked as the day you were born—
by the wedding silver.
Remember me, sister,
Mother’s little king
that faded into chairs
and the dark
of lonely corners
(now erudite and battle-worn)?
What magical current
settled you, there,
in that chair at father’s table
(at the right hand of God).
O, dandelion in the wind,
how glorious the ride
on Zephyr’s wings,
to and fro,
deep-diving into life
in rushes and bounds—without care—
with velocity
that keeps delicate fingers
unsoiled and pristine
for the turning of a registered page.
So glad to see you slip-in, mayfly,
from your lingerings
in the periphery, far, far
away
from the rank skin-stink of pill dust,
sweat,
and soiled linens.
No. Absence’s subtle bouquet,
riding your forgetful breezes
suits you best
like a signature scent.
How the call of home (or better things)
must pull your teary eyes
from the antique, porcelain chickens—
so gingerly fingered on the china hutch—
out of the dining room window
and away.
Now,
come sit by me, sister,
and let’s have a drink,
here by the gold watch
she left on the windowsill,
and let’s toast
to you and me,
and the mess she left behind.
The Healing Clock
Memories fade (like hours)
and fall away, lost down the crack
between the bed and the wall—
dissolving images in dusty frames,
slipping the catch of rusty nails
down yellowed wallpaper in thudless
freefall.
The shadow you left behind
retreats, silently, with each rising
of my morning sun, behind that thick curtain
of red velvet
to take your rightful place at
the head of our communal table
for the jubilee.
The gentle angles of your face.
The plumpness of your cheek.
Even those sad eyes of brown
that smile, escape me
like ashes in the wind.
All are just the stuff of legends,
now.
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