Dear Melody
The stage too can be a disguise. The light catches
the glittered bow in your hair and the auditorium
is all sparkle, no shadow. But everyone knows that
shadow is where the living happens. Where loss cuts
its teeth on our lungs. The acupuncturist who lives
down the street says our lungs are organs of grief:
If we slice them open we will find years of damp
growth, fiddleheads rooting themselves around
the bronchioles. Is this why we find it so difficult
to breathe when bad news comes: your mother
disappeared like a nightlight snapping off; the air
thickened around you. Now you curl up each night
under a quilt she loved, sneak a length of flannel
from beneath the mattress. This is the first secret
you’ve ever kept, her favorite pajama pants slipped
out of the dresser before your dad forced himself
to take inventory of his sadness. Her scent is long
gone but you are still grateful. Tonight your mouth
opens on stage, one more set of crooked teeth.
You sing a pop song with everyone else but inside
your lungs are dark rooms filled with ferns.
