Her ghost favours morning.
Through kitchen windows, she points
at my sons playing in the rain. A steeple.
The bell held in its throat. I am
the tree she climbed & climbed
& climbed out of
with her name. I am a game
she’s been playing as long as she’s been
gone. Her need to climb
until she is untethered
makes her shiver & shake, limbs
like hard branches. She is the daughter
I waited seven months
to wake. My sons, soaked to the skin,
show me their teeth
through the window. I am
a monsoon, a mother, a blood
moon. My sons are alive,
today. She is sky. The steeple.
The bell held in its throat. Ringing.