For Karen Hernandez Montinola
Heavyhearted I remember
the sad indigo on your arms
how I glanced in silence
at the painful flowering of a bruise
beneath the hem of a summer skirt
or the buttonhole of a sleeve,
like the life of the soft-petalled iris,
easily torn,
as it ran pain’s rainbow of
red to blue, but edged in aubergine
or a blush that meant not shyness
but a million hidden wounds.
I remember thinking of porcelain
when you showed me how your nails
had started to chip, how I hurried
to shorten the gaps between our words
as we spoke of a birthday in Hokkaido
or what your daughters dreamed
and what you wished for them in turn.
Oh how your body weighed your
own dreaming down.
It was like one sunny day:
I was watching through the window
of an elevated room —
one cloud plump,
almost purple with rain
wending its slow
its billowing way
across the skin of a blue-
blind sky.
The rain will come,
I thought,
the rain will come.
And as if from our eyes
it began to fall.
I heard your voice
sudden like a flash of —
Was it lightning?
Was it wings? —
as if you had found your true self
and learned to fly.
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