ENERGY

you come out jumping
with your cousins

stand the trampoline on edge
and slide down it

skip rope 199 times
without stopping

play golf for an hour
then soccer with an uncle

your skin white as birch ­
you are as lean as a stick

the food is on the table
for all who are hungry: you

argue over broccoli and cauliflow
cover the roast with mint sauce

prepare your feet to be wings
flying up the stairs, at last

asleep in Spider Man pyjamas
an angelic smile on your face

THE ORCHID

I hold a golden orchid
in both hands.
It is early spring.
The orchid's petals
are almost opaque.

With its help
I understand
the shifting seasons
and how orchids
return innocently to me.

And so I refuse to lament.
I no longer have the time.
And because I lost my love
I place my lips
to the orchid

and return to time past
when I planted the orchid
in remembrance of your
blamelessness and fragrance
like the gold orchid.

THE PHOTOGRAPHER

I took you to take photos
in the park where we counted
birds grieving over
misplaced shapes
and tree stumps freshly cut

taking pictures of yourself
with a tight smile in a car mirror,
leaves against a wall,
the interior of flowers,
the upturned fan of a tree fern.

I think of you
in the Albert Park setting
where you photographed a close-up
of a statue's anatomy
rolling your eyes
at the edge of the sun.

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