by Pattiann Rogers

    I remember you. You‘re the one

    who lifted your ancient bones

    of fossil rock， pulled yourself free

    of the strata¹ like a plaster figure

    rising from its own mold， became

    flesh and feather， took wing，

    arrested the sky.

    You‘re the one who， though marble，

    floated as beautifully as a white

    blossom on the pond all summer，

    who， though skeletal and particled

    like winter， glimmered² as solid as a bird

    of cut crystal in the icy trees.

    You are redbird—sandstone

    wings and agate³ eyes—at dusk.

    You are greybird—polished granite⁴

    and pearl eyes—just before dawn，

    midnight bird with a reflective

    vacancy⁵ of heart like a mirror

    of pure obsidian⁶.

    You‘re the one who flew down

    to that river from the heavens，

    as if your form alone were the only

    holy message needed. You were alabaster⁷

    then in the noonday sun.

    Once I saw you rise without rising

    from your prison pedestal

    in the garden beneath the lime tree.

    At that moment your ghost

    in its haunting permeated⁸ every

    regality of the forest with light，

    reigned⁹ with disdain¹⁰ in thin air

    above the mountain， sank in union

    with the crosswinds of the sea.

    I remember you. You‘re the one

    who entered in through my death

    as if it were an open window

    and you were the sound of the serenade

    being sung outside for me， the words

    of which， I know now， are of freedom

    cast in stone forever.

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