Leaping Into Eternity

Shiny new rollerblades

reflect Christmas tree lights;

kneepads lie forlorn like forgotten babies,

but it is evident

that their black hardness will not protect

him from this.

All night it was her footsteps

he listened for.

On the cold December day he tells me

"We found my mother - she's dead."

These black and purple skates with the promise

of spring and flight can't save

him from this.

Two boys lean out a third floor window

at one thirty in the morning;

their whispers travel on the crisp winter air -

"Look at the moon - Cindy means moon."

Tree branches like claws

hold the hard agate moon

while roots burrow deep

to the heart, the earth, the worm.

Memories fall

like tears and orange peels on the glass coffee table

in the room where Cindy lived.

The moon is fierce and angry but still.

This angel laughing, sunkissed, freckled

soars from the bridge to fly over rooftops,

free of roses and ringlets and lips tinted rust;

perfect fabrics bind her no more.

Her watercolours weep

in the darkness of the cruel night,

so cold the stars sparkle blue

and uncomprehending.