In the city with blunt edges,
life comes forth—
against the crafted rock of sidewalks
our feet forget black dirt.

Water, light, concrete, and time—
elements that we compress and compact.
Cranes of metal cut the sky,
then, a solitary pigeon flies by.

I am here to sing, I state,
but the day swings back, and I fall hard.
I grieve amongst the infrastructure—
columns and footers underpin my call.

You were here, once,
in this built metropolis, with us.
You loved to swim,
your body bronzed by my sun.

Do I cry for you?
Or do I cry for every father—
for mine?

For all my high-heeled asphalt walking
I remain a daughter:
a fruit who at its core
is summed up as seed.

In the funeral mass, I hold
the thin wafer—memory of a father—
on my tongue before I swallow.

Bread breaks within me,
becomes me,
but I remain hungry.

After the ceremony,
our bodies form a single row—
we each need a moment
to embrace the bereaved.

A faint breeze blows,
stirs frail leaves,
while beneath the red-tiled ground
soft dirt sustains my feet.

World of tree,
world of cut stone.
Place of passing through,
land of soundless bone.

I take one step forward
within the breath-held line.
It is always almost my turn
to mourn.

~

in loving memory of C.C.