There are flickering tea lights on each table.
I am on stage. Suddenly there you are
in the front row, clutching your grandchild,
both of you the same age as when you died.
You are the fragile sparrow, the dull wren,
head tied in silk scarf like an old Russian peasant.
You are flounce and long-length pleated skirts
and I can see your ankles – those bird legs
still don’t look able to take your weight.
You are holding the little boy in your lap.
He is Grandma’s darling and you are not dead.
He clutches your hands. Here is pure love.
Each word from my rustling page meets
your little nod. You are virgin audience,
who never saw me read. I am sure this
is a dream, you sitting here so serene,
your smile saying I see you now, I see
you; and I become your preening peacock.
We leave the poetry event to eat.
It’s that same last meal, again and again.
It’s plantain slices with fresh coconut bakes.
You eat tomatoes peeled and thinly diced, I eat
spicy baked beans. You sip rich cocoa tea,
I pick out the fish bones for the baby.
I am proud of you: your voice is spring water,
bubbly and alive. We hold hands,
the baby’s palms squeezed flat between ours
like a group prayer. This is red lily love.
Then a knife clatters from another table
in the empty restaurant. I wake up
and you are gone. I always want to raise
you from the dead. It is another morning,
you have gone again. I am nothing. Even
in this dream I never get to say goodbye.