Feri’s Kite

Mother do you remember the day
you handed me the kite? Not my first kite,

but one of many in my fifteen years of March,
the ecstatic windy month. This kite your last

gift, and the one that I loved best, although
I lost it. Not one I’d wrapped and tied

from sticks and torn green plastic, this new kite
was gold and blue, and in the village sky

my kite was the one that caught the sun,
rising and rising, surpassing hawks and eagles.

But then the wind came to fight me
and although I hauled and hauled

and used my wits to spill
the savage twisting of the air

the twine that sawed my hands
to pulp was snapped in two.

Still the kite flew, bucking
and raveling through deep blue

until it found a place of steady grace.
You stood beside me, on your face

the story of what was lost and what
the saving for your love had cost.

That night the kite was in my dream,
I fought again the wind

until the screaming jerked me
from my sleep and the buckling twist

of floor and earth was our island lifting.
It was your kite that pulled me

free to open air. In darkness I helped
my father pull away the fallen beams;

by dawn our hearts were dust.
Mother, I have spent a year of dreams

and in each rise and lurching heave
you are my kite, your stories are not

stolen with your face, instead the grace
of rising, rising. And my twine holds true.