It was that time of year
when potted geraniums on their iron hooks
had turned sad and leggy
(as you were)
when you posed for a Polaroid
in 1972
before I was born
or after my death--
always unclear.
It's like taking a beating underwater,
the way I still feel for you
or might have felt for you--
slow,
the kind of pain that poppies soothe.
It's an origin story delivered via candle wax arrow
explaining everything
or nothing,
and told by someone's widow, lover, grandmother, daughter.
I make no sense
even to myself
a child scrambling on a broad expanse of lawn chair
or a biddy past caring at the head of my own cortege.
I loved you.
I would have loved you.
I press white lilies between album pages to preserve them
only to find that there is no album, and I have no hands.
You were lovely that day
or had not yet arrived
or had already left
but the geraniums were fresh and pink by way of recompense.
___________
for Word Garden Word List #14 (Pablo Neruda), hosted by the amazing poet Hedgewitch.