For Jennifer Harding Feb 14, 1966 - Sept 19, 2010
I only have one photo of you
you are sitting in my house in Boulder
mid-sentence, your hands lift like birds
a small nest of fire burning in each hand
you’re holding court on the pillows of Esmeralda
our eight-foot long, lime green velveteen sofa
we bought at a yard sale on 5th & Arapahoe for thirty bucks
because you said it would invite tall men to lie down
we met because we kept seeing each other around town wearing each other’s old jeans we managed to squeeze into at the consignment store
you finally suggested we get together for a clothing swap so we could stop paying for each other’s hand-me-downs
I came over to your apartment above the old roadhouse
and you put acupuncture needles in my arm
we dressed up for each other everyday after that
sassy cabaret-cowgirls in aubergine-colored jeans, bad-ass boots, vintage silk tops
we realized we were more sisters than we were strangers
and we were inseparable for the next five years
until we broke up because you told me I didn’t know what God was
and if I had it to do again now, I would’ve just laughed at you
rather than walking away because how could I not know what God was when you always amazed me
you who wore lingerie under your Catholic school uniform
so you had something to smile about when the nuns beat you down
you who showed me how to afford to eat in Boulder “If you put it in a brown paper bag at Wild Oats Market, Lady M, you can put whatever price you want on it”
nothing major, heirloom tomatoes, organic cherries, dark chocolate haystacks
you who would call me at 10pm on trash night and say, “Come on Lady M, time to go alley shopping!”
we’d fill the back of your beater truck with treasures we pirated from dumpsters, both of us finding whatever we needed to furnish our homes
you who asked me how I bring my poems to life
and accompanied me to my first public reading, my hands shaking
you who shamelessly ate boxes of chocolate chip cookies in your white silk kimono while scribbling haiku
and your wisest line to me,
“Well Lady Meredith, the rules only apply to you if you let them”
I miss you, Lady J I never got to say goodbye when you were dying
we had drifted apart and old grudges kept us that way
I didn’t find out until a year later
you came to me in a dream one night mid-September
when you didn’t answer my calls or emails, I searched you up,
found your obituary stunned, I asked questions, pancreatic cancer
I went for a walk that night
it was one year from the day you died, and I swear you came with me
said you were ready to move on
and I was the only one you hadn’t spoken with
and then there was this moment when you let me to see through your eyes
everywhere I looked all the molecules glowed like millions of tiny suns
I stood there transfixed
you said, “This is what it really looks like, Lady M”
and then it was over and you were gone
and it was too late to tell you that I had seen your hands lift like firebirds
that the scenes on your kimono came to life and danced in luminous poetry
Meredith Heller is a poet, singer/songwriter, and educator with graduate degrees in writing and education. A California Poet in the Schools, she teaches workshops for all ages in Marin County schools, Juvenile Hall, and on Zoom for kids & women. She is author of the poetry chapbook, SONGLINES (Finishing Line Press) and two collections, River Spells & River Rebel. Her new book, Write a Poem, Save Your Life, (New World Library) is scheduled for publication Spring 2021. Her poetry also appears in Rebelle Society, We’Moon, Raw Earth Ink, Quiet Lightning, Tiny Seed, Avocet, Aquarian, Common Ground, Tiny House, and American Songwriter. She is mused by nature, synchronicity, and kindred souls. www.meredithheller.com
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