Sara Orange Tip Was Here
'Please, make me beautiful,' she said,
one soft-shuttered morning, from a cushion
on a chair by my bed.
How could I not, I mused? The light
from an ice-cream sundae dawn
shining right through her;
easier, by far, to straighten a rainbow,
to bring peace to the Gaza Strip,
to convince bees they don’t like honey...
Not make her lovely? I wouldn’t
even if I could. She whose name, alone,
as, with one stutter of her wings,
she is gone, through an open window,
and all that remains – a scrap
of crumpled paper in my pocket, says,
‘Sara Orange-Tip was here’.
There are certain things, certain meanings –
lost forever, when explained away