Mia
Five Days

Five Days

i.

the first time
you notice
the way sun
ticks across the sky
you are five

wake up from a nap
air compromised
barely breathe
above a whisper

the fly's green
catches your eyes
her wings
give off sparks

she whirs past your face
lands on your hand
clap your palms
together

such swift force
shocks you
her flight stunned
legs waving in the air

watch her die
slowly

ii.

the way brother died
no less violent
on his back

no one knew or would say
he was
murdered
caught climbing
the barbed wall

his body
showed up
bruised
bloodied
not even fourteen
summers past
his birth day

dressed in white
grandmother
wails, weeps
all the way
up the mountain

where he is buried
in an unmarked
mound of dirt

iii.

winter white cold
muffles
the train's whistle
curved around
mountains
above the snow

at journey's end
grandmother
enters the temple
bows low to buddha
offers him prayers
last of her coins

though he
cannot console her

iv.

cypress boughs
lean over the ocean
which refuses
to receive them

limbs stretched in
supplication
twisted up with arthritis
so used to bowing
lower themselves

even further
to the ground

v.

night falls
you are cross
your feet burn
grandmother limps
silently

the gate opens
to a courtyard
a single lotus floats
in a fountain

sleep
grandmother says
but you cannot
sleep

listen
to the nightingale
sing her aria

throat
of a young woman
face to the moon
strumming a small zither

Poet's Biography:

Mia is the editor of Tryst. Her work has been published in various online and print journals; most recently in three candles, The Paumanok Review, Poets Against the War, ken*again...among others.