Heaven Fay

Ava, My Oldest
I am writing to ask if you remember.
It was spring when we walked together and you
taught me the names of the flowers.
Lily of the valley, pear blossom, Carolina jessamine.
You turned your face to me and I felt that I had
loved you since the billowing sheet of Chaos.
How am I to go on living
after having felt that?
O, do you remember. Our many, many befores.
Maybe you hear them, stirring
from a room in you that is older
than womb. You and I did carry
candles down castle corridors as children once. And we baked
bread, and we filled pies! We wore moonstone on our twisted fingers.
You were boy and I was fish and when you pulled me from
the water I glistened and your father was proud.
In the kitchen that evening you cut a lemon
and squeezed a sliver
over me, giving me
moon, rain, the promise
that we would live again someday.

Prayer to Saint Luke
In her dream she unlatches your hands
from these gold cuffs around your wrists.
The clasps, when they open, make the
comforting sound of a locket.
She lays your hands in a chest,
a chest lined with red satin.
She says, I have been so brave in being loved
by things with hands.
Let’s keep these here for a while, locked up
like old jewelry.
And in the morning,
at the dew of the dream,
she has your hand in hers
like a crushed bird. Together in sleep
you pray to Saint Luke for a surgeon,
a sculptor, who can consecrate you
with those beautiful, severable hands.

Heaven Fay is a twenty-year-old poetess. She has self-published a chapbook and her poems appear in Words Dance Magazine and Up The Staircase Quarterly. Her writing ritual includes coffee and a dress printed with suns. You can find her published work and connect with her on her website, heavenfay.com.