I mind the peak cabin with vistas in all directions
need fire humming here and nowhere in particular
while you dip a toe into icy time flow finicking a door
When I see the roots of a tree bleed
through the ground, now I say they are the veins
of my grandmother's hands, spilling upward.
I recall the tender bruises up and down her arms
I knew he’d never kill anything and it wasn’t that
I thought you wanted that deer to get killed but I had suspicion you
did not care either way and that indifference made me more sick but
A soul is already carpeted in the divine and
who is to say sorrow isn’t God?
Who is to say love isn’t prayer?
Who is to say time is always on our side?
When four baby daughters up in the sky drain her anaemic heart,
tears on Granddad’s photo against her riant chest, I crawl on her lap -
My hug means to tell her, yes, she will see them again but please,
not now.
There were car accidents, illness, and war.
Dia de Los Muertos arrived just in time.
I surrendered as the ants overwhelmed me.
Beneath blue skies and papel picado.
Hovering over my body, in a tangled
mess of silver threads going snap, snap,
snap, I realise you were the fibre and tendon,
and glue that held while we ended
and began and ended and began;
but the berries do not know
they grow because they grow
and only know how to grow
in the front circle
in the backyard
up and down the gravel road
all along the fence line
I stood over him as he sat at the table
setting the book down automatically in front of him
he looked up and almost made eye contact asking,
“Who do I make it out to?”
From one realm to the next, may Your essence
forever sizzle and soar.
Because whether You believed or not,
despite the world not consistently
admitting nor deserving it,
You were always the hero we needed.
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