Same Pathos
Choden, when you bent over the butter lamps,
I could see the hint of henna in your hair,
And the glint of that tough trouble you found down in Phuntsholing,
And I burned up and melted in your prayer.
And I remembered Sara back in Canada,
Beside a granite grave in faded jeans,
She placed me. I was plastic flowers.
Ever in bright bloom for troubled teens.
Choden, when you sat by the bukari,
I was the smoke to explain away your eyes,
As I was the rain drizzling down a window,
To reflect on Sara’s cheek as her disguise.
Choden, you are strong and so’s my Sara,
Stronger than my girls should have to be.
Rest knowing that tomorrow will be better,
And you will have no further need of me.