Poem from Aunt Christie

I am a conjurer of infants
August, 2008
M. Christine Benner

The times we find
to talk about her
are precious and hard,
like gems.

I darkly suspect they come easier
to my brother and his wife.
Everyone who knows them
knows what happened
to their other daughter,
knows that they bleed
dry through the gash
of her absence
every day.

And they have Kali,
who lives without boundaries,
who talks as if she’s seen her:
her missing baby sister.

But my grief goes unseen.
I resort to trickery,
coaxing hapless strangers
into bearing the story of my baby niece
who suffered and died,
a pure and sinless sacrifice
to natural anomalies.
I am the worst kind of evangelist,
twisting all conversation,
to my one sad theme.

But I must find a way
to bring her to me,
to touch her soft forehead,
to create her again.

So on the cot at the
Red Cross blood bank,
too pale to stand,
I take up a conversation
about aluminum can tabs . . .

And in the lounge
at Sitterly House,
lingering by the copier,
I gingerly lift the questions
about my summer . . .

And at the jewelry store,
having the ring
lined with her birthstones
adjusted to my hand,
I grasp a jeweler’s compliments . . .

and I lay them down
only when they have become
Nora.