Brenda Rose

She throbs with a fierce southern magic,
in a garden, sips wine with her ghosts,
who speak in a soul soothing language
and coo as she breastfeeds her son.

The oldest one speaks in pure Gaelic
to the baby clutched to her breast:
You’ll crack open your heart to help others;
Your love will survive your own death.

At midnight she pleads for perfection.
The ghosts take the babe from her arms:
He’ll take to you to places where beauty
is measured by spills from the heart.

She sighs and drinks faith for his future,
and whispers the storm won’t last long.
The wind she sees coming could save him.
With words he will write his own story.
With songs he will fast win the fight.

A full moon shines bright on the garden,
stars falling and crowning the child;
the ghosts form a circle around them
to view his first dance with his mom.