you, one who sighs and yawns, crawls and nips
fallen from emptiness and all seamless words between
what name have you given me in secret? what name
did i never call you by?
in my dream, you left me scraps of paper to read by moonlight,
written with the names of colors:
green- tired eyes. damp with dew at morning;
warm blanket inside cold- that is night.
and darkest blue
dimming downwards towards black- your name for night. and
my crimson- blood i collect in a paper bag, heavy in its holding
that rips and spills, pouring out into your scattered notes.
the pulp of each paper creeping from white, to red,
to red, growing to a stem, then a flower, blooms
in the color still written on its face.
i collected this bouquet in my hands, the smell of lilac
and placed it at your feet. you began to cry
and my world fell away. your tears turned to cold rain
in a field of grey flowers. and as each was struck by water
they shriveled back to soaked paper, now holding each, a single name
written in a language i could not read.
you took my arm and led me among them, now gravestones.
and as you pointed to each, you whispered a name of an ancestor
and a story for each
and as we came to the last stone, we stopped to see instead
a living child, fresh in blood, staring about
with new, wet eyes. and you picked it up and held it to you,