To Bekah
On her 23rd birthday,
upon which
She will not be 23:
[just to save space],
I ran into the pile of clothes
That stood in for you
Back then,
Back when you were barely 21
And barely dead.
Then you swept
Like a genie into my nose,
As if you had been bottled, kept
Fresh for years. The smell of you
I slept with for the length
Of a pregnancy, then packed
Away reluctantly, warned against
Letting my grief become chronic,
Accosted me so true it buckled my knees.
A baby blue tank top, two
Hooded tees, the long black sweater
You draped neatly over me,
Back when you were barely 21,
And I was barely bereaved,
Leaning toward me. Embracing me.
My girl you will always be.
And as I sit here writing, Bekah
Can you believe? First it is
"They Say It's Your Birthday," next I hear
"Beautiful Girl." Stay with me...
Beautiful girl, stay with me.
© 1980-2003 barbara
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