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.