Out of the Blues

a trio of mothers becomes sisters again calling family and gathering friends

we have our own clan, equal daughters and sons it takes a whole village to raise little ones

not only in birth but in burial tooit is those women who carried us through.

the eldest, she organized and directed with care the middle, in denial and just barely there

their offspring, us cousins, helped out where we could the priority of each other long understood

and if something (like dinner!) slipped by, just perhapswell, the youngest? she always filled in all the gaps.

their men were bent over, the young and the old, as they tried to be strong, just like they were told

the whistle now silent, like his old brass trumpeti’m glad we hugged, cousin, the last time we met

and now, three years later, we keep him with us with old jokes and pictures. it still feels unjust.