When you were sixteen

green fostered you.

Grass drew itself about you,

scratchy as an old blanket

or a lover’s chin.

It became your emblem,

a girl dancing.

Then a wild match flared

and touched you.

Passion flamed

a thousand metres high.

Fire undressed you,

ecstasy took you

where green could not reach.

Left you charred with kisses.

Bruised you with infatuation.

And left your thin body

lying facedown naked in a field

of bleak ashes.

Rain tore down

and mingled with the dust.

Grass came back

to cover you.

Little by little,

green blades grazed you,

scoring your burnt body

with a map of love,

piercing each meridian

until you rose

and vomited your life.

I was not there

the day the earth took you,

when silence stayed and your spirit

crossed the border.

And I can only guess

at the day your skin was broken,

and at the thousand tiny cuts

that stained you scarlet.

It is only today, in the wide field, that I see you:

a grass-stained gypsy all in red,

dancing, tambourine in hand,

alongside death.

<< / >>