BLUE                in memory of Ma         



 I remember being nine
and gran would plait my hair -
love roughly intertwined.
My body thin against her knee,
she would tug and pull,
but with her, somehow, I was free.
She'd tie a navy blue bow
at the end of each braid,
and while she was alive,
I could scrape my knee and I could fall,
but essentially, I was never afraid.


When she took me to live with her for a while -
 I was smiling - the only blue I knew 
was the color of that bow,
but now my life is indigo shot-through,
tinged with the purple of a 
tell-tale bruise - growing darker
with each added straw 
of burdening bad news.

Now I long to be nine again -
leaning gainst granma's knee
and this time when she says:
I've heard what  your father does to you -
tell me if it's true.
This time,
maybe I can unravel the thread;
I'll travel time to where the darkness starts. 
I'll roll it up, this blue,
and choose a different hue instead.

Maybe this time
when I'm mine again,
leaning against grandma's knee,
I'll know not to be afraid.
I'll say,

Yes, 
it's true.

I'll know it's not my fault
and ruthlessly, I'll tell the truth.
Being nine again,
against grandma's knee,
I'll say the words
that let me grow  up free.


That simple , Yes,
will set me free.

That simple 
Yes,
will free the grown-up me.