My daughter says
she’s been called
to sing some high song,
some choral song,
at some high mass,
at some cathedral,
somewhere in Detroit.
“I can’t eat now,” she says.
“Not tonight.
Not tomorrow.
Not until after
communion.”
I nod as a flight
of magenta birds descends,
robing her in
a black velvet dress,
stringing her neck
in pearls.
Reaching out,
I stroke the cascade
of auburn tresses
on her porcelain shoulders,
my fingers dissolving
to gossamer.
“It’s OK, Mom.”
She steps onto
an abalone disc,
her blue-gray eyes
like planets,
as fog shrouds
her bare feet.
Angling her arms skyward,
she pulls one back
to shoot a translucent arrow,
the disc swirling
then lifting,
her dress a rivulet
as she ascends
into a veil
of purple clouds
washed in yellow.
