The Ininti Tree #2 Kerri Shying

The Ininti Tree.

“Detritus” says the kid and right he is,

ankle-deep in the bare-knuckle brawl that bore him,

‘just stuff’.

The Fabulon generation, silky smooth and moving frictionless through life,

safe in a languid pairing,

all smiles and thrown back heads of laughter.

I notice death reminding me to get a wriggle on

some call it downsizing,

reluctant to admit to being unrefrigerated meat

“we have to fit the commode in here”

says Fabulon,

“start picking mate, something’s got to go”.

Remember me

I am the coda,

gathering the flotsam and jetsam of all our moments

into  boxes of memory

Here’s the index, here.

A child of three removed at the dosing room door

this cedar box a consolation on the day  he lost a parent;

the earrings his sister wore at her wedding, at the last minute

 she doesn’t speak to me anymore;

these birds, middle age and freedom;

my widow’s ring - studs meant for his funeral, I never got to wear.

Remember me.

Remember me without the spat-out teeth of my collision with time.

I am the glue.

Plant the beans.

The Ininti beans will tell of a puzzle-woman’s path

my tree, grown so far from home, will promise

wondrous shade, and colour

 for Opera yet to come.