Memories of Late June

 

in my memory

i rustle like the mulberry trees 

that whistled near Papa's bedroom window when he

was only eight 

the waves that called his name

belonged to the wind

now i am twenty &

i still chase the winds that once left him

he named me after his dead sister: she died

when he was two

but when he looks at me, he sees her

& he keeps what is left of her memory

in his green eyes and in the damp lights 

that fade away into the Brooklyn streets

they remind him of his childhood home

he has a few pictures of his hometown 

a few photographs of his mother 

her placcid eyes beckon him into

her embrace

& every so often when he looks at me

he cries because i look like all the women

he's ever loved before

& every woman he's ever lost

he talks to the walls & prays

to the memory of me running into his arms 

when i was a little girl

Papa loves me but i can't see beyond the

pain in his eyes

it twists him up into a dark yellow

that boils like a setting sky

on a Friday afternoon as Mama

boils water for soup

her hands fold over the pot 

sometimes the smells & the summer heat ferment

& sometimes the winds carry a secret

that i am too young to understand

but i am still here

while so many have nothing

but their first names and a photograph to be

remembered by.