are you amy?

it's a weekend of poetry
of course, you come too--
what did you do, say,
tell me? when you thought
this might be the last
moment with your granddaughter?
you knew julie, too--
why no poem for her?

are you amy? born just
as you were buried?
i
stay in the assignment:
an image:

i remember the blue dress
on the doll--the strange
shaped teeth, the eyes
that flapped open and closed
the ringlets of the reddish
hair--the strange covering
of things--the white cloth
body--not white--
aged cloth--even then
as creme like--
yellowed--as this
page of yours i write on.

i saw the butterfly--

i saw the butterfly--
the safe metaphor
full of florious
heaven and all promise
posing its questions
at the edge of
things--i trade it
for a cake pan--
round--the artistry
of your church work--
your fervent prayer--
your poetry there
at the beginning
of things.
i remember
being in the
other room
with you--
playing with
the caskets.
i was there
picking out
the stuff--
not picking
out any stuff.
i played with
your white comb,
with the gilded
edge, the gold
hairbrush and white
bristles. did you
let me play
with your
hair?

something of yours

something of yours--
your red tile--
your white kitchen--
no--yes--your cake pan--
i have a pan--
round--steel? -- it has a
wheel--a lip that pouts
in--a clasp that
tethers the two sides
together--a simple
bottom that fits
inside the ring
when its clamped shut
a space for cakes
to be made
the kind you made
for me--i taste
through the
pictures i see
the icing
the little
caricatures--
carousel horses
and striped
paper awning
you made
me 4?
or was it 5
cakes? with
your two hands.
did i help
you crack
eggs in the
kitchen?
stir the
batter?
lick the
spoons?
there is
so much
i can't
remember
that i
know you
did with me
those earliest
years--my earliest--
your latest.
were you right
about god?