She was not cold and I was
still a girl. Okay, I'll never
recover that. She was tall. She
had black hair, her skin tanned fast,
dark blue eyes. I can't remember
her teeth. She liked to wear bright
colors, used the word sweetie
ironically. I'll be seventy,
her dead forty-three years, wake
angry and weeping still. She comes
down the stairs wearing black
and white. She comes down the stairs
smiling and the room swerves.
I'm tiny in her arms, as if
flat against a steep mountain.
The sky is strong, pulls at me,
but she holds. Understand I don't
believe this will ever change.