Wind voice howling damp spring, scent of cats,
squirrels scurrying up oaks, scrambling
across my roof.
Ghosts walk so lightly on the struggling grass,
fade in and out of moonlight.
I can almost hear their voices, a murmur, a spell.
Their garments are formed of light and I can remember
loving them, but their hands seem made of mist.
Are they sailors now, wise in their movements, alone
with wind and sea? Do they remember the earth?
Can they touch their faces or walk hand in hand?
Do their gentle eyes pool with tears? The one with hazel eyes
would be my father
if he could break free of death.
He is bound by nothing.
There in the garden we planted lilacs
in his name, buried his ashes and bits of bone.
He grows in our soil.
There is something potent inside my skin.
Tonight it throbs like a toe stubbed naked on a hard chair.
Something deep and red stirs where I can't see or reach.
I feel my name leap like flame.
Strange, strange sound. Weight rushing up from a body,
gravity reversed, bees and flies, my name my name my name
hypnotic wind through lips, sound and sense
and dizziness. Look up. Somewhere a year of my life is lost.
