I don’t know the name, but I know it lies closest to your heart.
The artery, the broken child and the shattered bird,
The name whispered in trains and cages.
I don’t know the name, because I’ve heard it before,
Read it in letters
And felt it swimming in my blood;
Swimming against the tides of tact
That could not save it.
It circles the world
And follows me; I see it in the green Midwestern twilight
So the softest summertime makes me cry.
The elegance of bone
Should not be seen through skin.
The understanding of bones’ crunch
Should not be seen in eyes that haven’t seen a decade
Haven’t seen mothers and fathers and siblings
But have seen playmates in pieces.
They stand in front of me, within me,
My past and a band upon my arm:
My past is not my own. I’ll tell you a secret:
I remember a child who looked like a boy
And her name was Stella.
Polish and a proud gaze
The eyes of one who found life and knew it
The eyes of one who tricked history.
Now she’s in black and white
But she’s also in the colors of the news:
Honduras, Yemen, drone strikes or wire,
Technology fading into intent.
Today, my words are simple.
Trick history into giving her life.