June 2012

My arms are full of New England,

Kira, seven days old,

golden skinned, sweet honey.

English mother, Indian father,

an American - yet -

she is not tied to any country,

threads of empire break

like fine webs in her tight fists.

Vestiges of Old England flicker across the screen,

the old queen, stern in her finery, is on display,

Jubilee too joyful a word for what this is,

a river of onlookers become the spectacle

gawping in wonder that she stays afloat

on that heavy boat,

on metalic water,

under steel clouds.

Here, there are no curtains at the window,

rain falls steadily from steel clouds,

silver filaments make a cocoon,

the gossamer wrap of a moment holds us

as we become something else,

self-contained, 
together,

apart.

This America feels like my England,

the comforting quiet of time passing slowly.

She stirs,

silent dark eyes look at something I cannot see,

we are in the same space,

holding on

letting
go.