I saw you, the summer child
lying in a bathtub filled with stars
while clouds spread through water.
Reddish, pinkish lips stood out
on skin the colour of pollen, ash
spreading, staining water.
The stars I learned were razor blades
I cut myself as I pulled you out
and ash slipped through my fingers.

Midday come early on Sunday morning
you should’ve seen the basket that they tossed you in,
covered with roses, perfumed and veiled
you would’ve liked my speech, I hope.
You would’ve liked his eyes.
He’ll worship you, I know.
He’ll make a pilgrimage
every Sunday that would make a novice blush
in envy, but for love
he’d follow you, his angel
all the way down with communion
‘till he’s sick, I hope
you’re proud.