For Taije, on Inspiration

Taije means lovely.
A gasp hung in stale air,
a bubble rising until
beyond sight it bursts
and there's nothing.
Not to say you will dissipate.
Rather, you are a culmination.
Something great, trapped
in a single
stunning moment.

Your poems rouse me.
Past the grief and loss
I see reflected on crumpled pages
the jagged vision of myself.

I don't need to be reminded:
I'm just a child.

I couldn't have possibly:
Watched love collapse
in upon itself
as it turned from clasped hands
to black eyes.
Seen the remnants of a mother
vanish forever, gift wrapped
and sprinkled with dirt and posies.
Caused the helplessness of a sister
abandoned and utterly lost
for the first time
when I fled home.
Struggled with addictions
that sought the control
I could never possess.

Our stories yield sad facts.
They torment the now with a sullen past,
abolish hope for better thoughts.

I was four the first time I died
and you, I don't know the first time
you lost all sense of yourself.

I don't know who or what
tore at the threads of innocence
that once blinded you
from the terrors of mortality.
All I know is that you, like me
exist in the same place
on a map, in our lives.

You push me to discover:
to seek pleasure in things unnoticed.
Just imagine
after the expanse of a tragic storm
iced grass grasped between fingers, toes...
Through my own tragic symphony
of poetry and voice, I'll create
the power
to inspire.