Talija

I remember when you were born you

came amid the monsoon

that broke the dry and pregnant heat;

thunder spoke rain in the desert

the earth exhaled the scent of seeds

and you came in the midst of roses

someone had delivered

to your mother.

Out at the end of that dead end road

you were born not far

from where I once saw a falcon

perched on a fencepost not three feet distant

from where I had surfaced in meditation.

You were like that, an omen

surrounded by medicine bundles

blessed by the hands of holy men and midwives,

those feathers touched only in prayer;

you were pretty, lying there

on that purple Guatemalen weave

the signature of a certain town

where women sing songs to bless the passage

as we had sung to you—

legs splayed, bent kneed

you were so flexible then, you had no resistance

to gravity, falling easily to the earth.

We followed your star

down that washed out, graded road

and paid our respects as if

to some kind of visiting dignitary.

All this was before

we’d become accustomed to you,

the bird alight inside your eyes,

your voice unfurled in words,

your magic name.