(for my mother’s sister)
What an old thorn you’ve been for me
and I for you, once a young green problem
pulled into our bodies
by the weight of my mother’s death,
passing through, tearing the flesh of belief
and the images of our common origin
from the womb of your mother
where this all began with those tiny seeds,
the only gifts grandfather gave
in his short and painful life;
the seeds become a daughter become a son
become a thorn, each to the other,
suffering, cursing, laughing, cajoling
until the edges rounded, the barbs dulled
and finally passed through our hearts
to flower again in shining red beauty,
rich with all the pain and laughter,
lowered to the earth of a warm hillside
with last tears and final adieu
to my long foe and dear ally,
your thorn and mine become the rose.
