I always meant to tell you I was sorry,
So sorry I was that you must’ve known
your godmother and I were totally
godless. I remember the time we brought you
an incredible yellow dress and you laughed
for you looked like a bright banana with
brown shoes. A beautiful banana, we thought,
intently with pleasure, surprised at our
shopping prowess. We two burglars who stole
among the petty shadows, your tad youth
(as grown-up tales tattered the visage) .
We know you remember the gold bracelet,
vaguely glistening with two intertwined hearts.
The passage of your name about your throat.
As seekers, we never wanted you to forget
your Identity—for we hung these ornaments
in hopes you’d be happy, for we never
had a daughter, only sons, able and strong
with laughter, while infectious, now gone.
A sad love to raise boys, treat them as lions
as you were our little lamb, now alone
on this lone desert of misplaced landscape.
I forgive you for loving your godmother more
even if she tried to run me over
when she drove so long to find the near truth
by a sullen tree with an arched limb, as if…
Temptation had bent down its wretched arm
as I felt his weathered skin. But I love him.
Yes, more than your godmother, myself, with his disease.