Marianne’s poem

I would like my name to be Kumasaka,
Mayan for clarity coming.

I will adopt this name,
prepare myself to see
and hear and wait.

My new name is a poem,
a promise to lift my confusion and dullness.

My other name is a gift from my father.
It means I am loved.

I will keep it as well
for it will make me feel safe.
Even after the last secluded melody
of the solitary songbird
is lost in the wind,
immortalized in the cosmos.

That’s the last poem Marianne Cassidy
ever wrote. She didn’t have any paper,
nor pen, nor time to fetch neither
when she was dying in a field of hay
as it moved through her.

So she spoke through rattled breaths,
handing each word to the wind.
And in return the wind assured her
that he would recite her poem
before each sunrise
able to be heard by anyone,
so long as they listened.

I heard it in Iowa
funny how things go.
Wandering through the dusk
smoking my last cigarette
wondering, nothing in particular.
Just wandering and wondering.

And just as wander gave way to silence
the wind tapped my shoulder.
And he told me
if ever there was a time to be hush puppy
it was right then and there.
You best believe I did .

And as Marianne’s final gift unfolded
in that balmy Iowa breath,
for the first time in all my years
I remembered being born.