Sing

Zion says, “The Lord has forsaken me, my Lord has forgotten me.” Can a woman forget her baby, or disown the child of her womb? Though she might forget, I never could forget you. —Isaiah 49:14–15

(After Joy Ladin’s poem, Forgetting)

Sing

You were walking along the shore
not far from your house, and
I asked you to look out at the sea,
smell its honey-green waves,
taste the deep and cheer,
and all you heard was a pickup truck,
rumbling over the road above.

Sixty years ago, if I’d whispered, sing,
you’d have cried out
like a tree full of seagulls,
                                                joy smitten.

I’ve given you this shore,
the oyster beds at low tide,
the barnacles your boots use for traction,
and for amusement, otters
gambolling on the boat dock.
But you don’t sing. Not a peep.

I’ve even given you someone
interesting to walk with,
someone who’ll never forget her children,
your children:

speaking of — I can help celebrate, blow
out candles, uncork wine. I like a party.

Or I’ll sit with you in the gloom of a waiting room.
I know of sorrow.

So many connections.
You could pay attention.

And now you’ll walk home to find a photo,
sent by a friend — a cherry tree
perfectly framed in a puddle.

I’ll go on. I’ll play the clown,
ride a donkey, wear a cow bell. I’ll
jabber, rattle the gravel in my rain stick
above the sound
of your bicycle while you’re
gliding down Maple Mountain.
I’ll thunder above your breathing
while your climbing Tzouhalem.
I’ll keep pointing out arbutus, always green,
its bark, colours to die for,
and I’ll show you, as close as your window,
the sun, the rain, the mist
settling on Salt Spring.

I’ll go on as long as it takes.
I won’t forget.
How could I?
I’ve carved your name
in the palms of my hands.

You’ve forgotten to sing my name.
But I don’t forget —
                                    I’m singing yours now.