Not of the mother's milk sweetened
With orange blossom. Not of
Cardamom stuck in childhood's grimace. Not of
The slippery rocks of the cliffs. Not of
Redemption or searching. Not of pilgrimage.
Not finding him young on the pier. Define 'them'.
Tell them a story they already know. Don't
Tell them of forgiveness. Of the dimming onyx
Of the eyes. How I pictured him, before
I was I. Feral and fearless, controlling
The tenuous mountain clouds. The tides.
Don't mention that, they cheat him now,
The days. Don't tell them, but I am there, behind him,
Gathering the papery petals that line our way.
Home? Did we ever posses the gardenia?
The shells? The songs we sang
Behind a million veils? We laughed.
Our eyes held centuries.
These were seasons of many tempers.
Get into the weeds with me.
I'll show you that I am telling a mercy.