XIII

I was dead when they rescued me.
They pressed cold palm upon palm
to my breast
checking for that graphical mess of a beating
that signified their work well done.
But I would not be that easy.

I saw the light.
It was beautiful, and shaped like
my father
Who braided my hair better than every woman
on the block
And took me to see the countryside even in
the pouring rain.

The light was my sister
gently taking my hand
and brushing my hair
and her hair
and our doll’s hair
(that we were too old for anyway)--
God, I miss her.

In the light
I saw myself
in a blue dress.
My hair was the water
that churned below titanic bows.

A gasping breath.

Then I could feel my heart
Beat