Vigil

1

Her youngest daughter searches

for a funeral dress and white veil.

Her eldest daughter folds in;

her son disappears into heroin.

I ask only that my aunt wait for me,

the way her mother waited for her,

holding death back with laboured breath,

eyes fixed ahead, living

to see her daughter that last time.

I ask her to wait so I can watch

her steady fingers turn the rosary beads,

kiss the baby hair by her ear,

smile when she tells me she is scared.

I don’t want her to be alone.

I am confident, like God,

packing for my early morning flight.

At 3 am the phone rings. She’s gone.

There is a still pause before I weep.

2

Today I walk along the River Thames

following a procession,

nostalgic as the season dies,

watching rust-coloured leaves litter

as Indian gods, samba dancers,

and fish lanterns glide in the night.

Last year I walked in this sea of bodies,

saying poems about crossroads

to veil-faced Orishas, lifeless puppets.

I walked dressed in white

like her face covered in that coffin.

I walked preparing for my vigil,

ticking off hours to my flight.

It’s a year today.

I knew she would wait,

but she slipped out real quiet

and gone she own way.