(for my mother’s sister)
What an old thorn you’ve been for me
and I for you; once a young green tare
pulled into our bodies
by the weight of my mother’s death.
Tearing the flesh of family belief,
the images of common origin
in the womb of your mother
where all this began
and those tiny seeds,
the only gifts grandfather gave
in his short and painful life.
His seed became your sister become her son
became a thorn, you and I to each 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
and lowered with your body
into the earth of a warm hillside
with last tears and final adieu
long foes and dear allies,
your thorn and mine
become the rose.
