You called my name before
my voice broke from dawn, entered day.
Your nile dark braid of hair, a sister’s
rope to pull me from the river flood.
Tall yet near. Your hand a cradled nest.
My eyes found yours. I’m sure they did.
No milky sky could confuse. No olive
moon had your scent.
I’ve grown into years, decades now.
All that you gave, all that we lost, are
rendered in one old box.
Even so dire as white and black, that old
photograph paints your Mediterranean skin.
I carry it now. A pocket keeps.
Sister, do you hear me now?
I am the one with olive groves
upon my cheeks.
Neil Reid © November 2009