Time is now leaking

From my pores freshly open

Otherwise silent

Wind whips through ashes

Born across the city streets

The haze lifts at noon

Brittle brown palm fronds

Wave at the window greeting

Indifferent to all

A sliver of gold

Is served on a plate of black

Wind ruffles the feast

They say aging is hard,

Knees buckle and stab;

Eyes strain to read a menu at Olive Garden;

Checkout lady at Publix calls you "sweetie".

There is also a suspension, a revelation,

Alligator eyes peering over the water;

Moonlight through the palm fronds;

Sweet slices of ginger in a jar.

"Ay, Marcella, we were never close," she says

sadly- as though explaining

our lives together, mother and daughter,

to a small, stupid child.

Her eyes cloud over with cataracts,

her mind clouds over with dementia,

she shivers in the bone-chill

of November in Virginia.

I once knew her- long ago-

in another place, another chapter,

on a coffee plantation in her homeland.

Veranera blossoms swaying in the warm wind

on a farmhouse porch where she held my sobbing head,

fresh from heartbreak, and stroked my back,

each caress a reminder to breathe,

To forgive,  

To move on.

At that moment our fence swung wide

and seven horses stampeded in

from the ranch next door, followed

by panicked farmhands.

"Who left the gate open?",

she shouted into the wind.

"Idiota!" We laughed, we cursed,

and the spell of sadness was broken.

Now, watching her descend

into a chasm from which there is no return,

I know I can no longer present her with this story,

Evidence that we loved one another.

All I can do is fetch a blanket

and drape it over her scrawny shoulders,

wrapping the warmth around us,

each shared breath a reminder

To forgive,

To move on.

Over thirty years ago;

 We split a steamed crab, cracking and sucking on the sand,

 We broke bread and guzzled wine,

 We slept in a creaky bed at a seaside inn, not touching.

 "I feel desire.", she confessed on the terrace, looking down at the ink black sea.

 "Love yes, but not just love. For what is love without desire?"

"I feel love, but not desire", I replied, gazing up at the cloudy night sky.

"Not the the anger and pleasure of passion,

 Not the spark of a hand on a thigh,

 Not even the urge to gather twigs for a nest."

 Her pretty brow wrinkled, perplexed;

 She, named for the huntress, whom the whole world desired.

 She, who ran headlong into the waves calling to her goddess of froth and fury.

 She, dancer of the Irish ginger and Mexican hips.

 She, of many lovers for whom love became need

 and desire a mere exchange of flesh, an act, a culmination.

For what is desire without love?

 Today I searched for her name;

 She is still standing on the Oregon coast,

 Arms outstretched to the azure waters,

 Minnows swimming by her toes.

Is that you, Bernadette?

Peering at the map in the Paris Metro,

Your sole request, a cup of McDonalds ice melting down my front.

Walking between two cavernous cafes

to reach the sliding doors.

Is that you, Bernadette?

Wandering down endless corridors

straining to read the signs.

Pediatrics, Radiology, Oncology, Gynecology;

Labyrinths reeking of cleaning fluid and death.

Is that you, Bernadette?

A wrinkled pixie in a white gown,

paisley tied round your head,

Waltzing with an IV stand across the tiles,

Mocking my maskless state with an elbow bump.

Is that you, Bernadette?

Long ago we prowled across campus,

Lionesses hunting for

Lovers in the computer lab.

You swam laps around me in the dusk,

Ran leagues ahead of me over scorching savannahs.

You once invited me to a party; 

men in eye liner smoked and lounged.

I was not cool enough to belong.

Is that you, Bernadette?

Perched on your metal bed,

I recount your saga as you smile weakly.

You do not need me to sing your glories like an ancient scribe.

You led travellers across the Rockies.

You took your daughter to live in a foreign land.

Away from the man laughing in a wedding photo,

Away from your gaggle of Irish Catholic sisters and brothers.

You rebranded African states and aging rockers,

You held virtual salons with divas from your tiny flat.

You remade yourself over and over,

Without bluster or regret.

Is that you, Bernadette?

All these many years,

We did not sip lattes in a Parisian Cafe,

Nor sip champagne at your fiftieth in a Tuscan villa;

Nor hike together in the Costa Rican jungle.

I always thought there would be time.

Is that you, Bernadette? 

At the Zoom memorial

African immigrants spoke of your kindness.

Your daughter read a poem.

A diva sang Ave María.

I wrote on your ethereal page.

Is that you, Bernadette? 

Could all of you fit into a simple box?

At the finale, I saw you slide into the flames.