To Petra,

Once I promised myself I'd write

without fail

at least once a year

on your birthday

or thereabouts.

When you were new

and the only important thing

was to stare at your tiny crafted features

anticipating a grimace.

You would rosebud your lips.

Slate eyes so sharp, so clear.

The enigmatic cool damp of your ears.

The lack of sleep was worth it all.

To serve you,

tend to you,

make your comfort full.

When did your birthday crawl by?

How is there less sleep

than when you woke

every two hours

eating like a seahorse?

How can I bear loosening

even for instants

the bonds I tied so secure?

How dare I relish a quiet hour

away?

Away, I rewind.

Solid frustration liquefies,

evaporates.

I am poured out.

You draw me across the minutes

with the promise of your laughter,

your totter,

a kiss in an open mouth

smashing me full force on the lips.

And you waddle off conversing with God

in the tongue we all spoke

before the fall of Babel.

The distance revives me

and reminds me of the price

that cannot be placed

on your cackling curls.

Andrine de la Rocha

posted 10/20/2010