Guinevere

When our mother lost you, she lost
Her marbles. All of them, at once. 
Empty pockets, empty pouch in lieu 
Of a stomach. She continued 

To wear her maroon pregnant dress
For weeks, for months - she looked
Like a baked apple: depleted, shriveled. 
I thought it odd, I remember asking. 

No response ever came. I had to invent
Them. They sent me to the countryside,
And held your burial in my absence—
It took me twenty years to find your grave. 

Everyone knew what I did not:
Your name. Father planted you dark red 
Roses. Grandfather made your bed in
Stone. A secret procession of mourners,

Of which I was not. I was not invited,
Not allowed a black veil or word, feeling. 
You stayed newly born with a broken heart,
Failure of a renowned surgeon, for years. 

Once, a woman I taught revealed
Her birthday in passing: the same 
As yours, some time in the nineties. 
She was all grown-up, not at all 

The imaginary child you had not stopped
Being. My own children are older now
Than you were and will ever be. This spring, 
I might take them for a visit.