Song a Year After My Mother’s Death
I allowed a small song
to nestle between my breasts.
It was furtive, a ground squirrel
occasionally checking the wind.
I thought it could not grow
on wine and despair. It didn’t.
On the one sunny day in a rainy month,
it basked.
It took on colour: peacock blue
shimmering like sunlit sea. I feared
it would strut. I watched
it fly forth
afraid of no one, no one
but me.
