She is light as the wing of a bird when you
lift her in a hug—much too thin now, bony-hipped.
One day she has jet-black hair, the next it's blonde—
without that light band of freckles that bridge nose
and cheekbones, you might not recognise her.
She taught you to fly: under the railway bridge
in a lightening downpour, over spear-tipped gates
of municipal cemeteries, decaying playground walls—
high enough to scrape over the semis' rooftops,
not so high as to get caught in the telephone wire.
April 5 2014
