She'll never see
her Gran' mama in Idaho
the elapsing fields
each gracing us
from different seasons
a semblance of strokes of life
raising to wheat heights
and tilting beige hairs
in the wind much like a sea's tide.
Never see
the way Daddy cocks his head
raises one brow and lowers the other,
like an indescive bridge
with stoned employees tampering it.
His shaven muzzle growling
the light catching on forgotten sections
like flies in spider webs .
She'll never be late,
he'll never complain.
She'll never
drink the strawberry milk at lunch
when all the chocolate was gone or outdated.
They won't jeer at her
for her pink mustache
juxtaposing a brown sweet one.
I'll never
read her Dr. Seuss,
help her with her math homework
though I couldn't help myself.
No holding hands when street crossing
and developing wrinkles
when she blasts free
a bird with tendered wings in my wake.
Has the means to carry the whole
neighborhood in her hopeful palms.
Picking, needing, loving, loathing things
throughout she lets mind and mouth
interact without barriers.
I'll never love her for that.
I'll love her
for the first breath,
the second,
third,
then the last.
She is a doll smaller
then the living form
shrunken in a state of peace.
She is a bald ballerina.
I imagine dressing her
for all but her funeral.
I want her to cry
as loud as her lungs allow.
I want to tell her it's ok
when it's not.
I'll never get to love her
more then I do today.
Bronze trophy winner
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