Reincarnation, life everlasting-- call it whatever you will-- it will not change the facts: we are ashes of stellar death. And, in the end, wishing on shooting stars is like pinning your hopes on the last sound of the whistle trailing off, last chord of the train sparking on the tracks then fading into the dark.
I have come
not to beg nor barter but to enter.
Who are you seeking?
opens and opens, fleshing me
to find my way,
I who am
haunted and a haunting.
What are you willing to abandon?
In the before, I continue:
a woman carrying on with the dishes,
the dusting, the sweeping.
But here, I am the voice of the petitioner.
Dearest, who was once of earth,
Dearest, whose departure has cleft me,
Dearest, who was my country,
my soil, my sun and sky,
is a bird taking wing.
Is this the place you seek?
And if at last I arrive,
will I find you in that room
with every window like the soul
flung open and flooded
with sounds of the distant sea.
And if I spill
out into the yard, will she be still
there, the child who was me
set down in the grass,
watching the stars blinkering
on and off, their light burning
with the knowledge of death.
How will you carry this?
I will have to use the flowers to address you.
Wild-blooming frangipani (your cloying scent marks me).
Pointillist-starred ixora (I braid you into my hair).
Indigo-blue plumbago (you obliterate the sky).
Lignum vitae (you foretell all histories).
Roses that grow ragged along the shore (stay with me).
How will you return to the living?
Called back by the susurrating wind and sea.
Called back by the roots of my hair, dirt
beneath my nails, the body’s sweat and stink.
Called back by their voices, yours
still clenched in my fist. Called back
to all that is matter, bone, and skin,
what fragment of you survives in me
as I open my mouth to speak?