Walking
through each gateway
time
chapters, unseen traps,
let me be protected
by this soft collection
gathered in
an amulet.
Calling on
all their gifts and powers,
the red-gold
of my grandmother’s hair
lily-of-the-valley
for grandpa, the gardener
R.B. the green
of his printer’s visor
grandma B.
the smell of fresh bread
and powerful
honey.
From my
father, a sepia photograph
and my
mother, a silver mirror
and these
are just from the capricious dead.
Who knows if
they are paying attention
if they are
larking about
on their motorcycles
somewhere
else.
Calling on
the sweet living
the ones who
give me love and flowers
and art and
music and delicious
conversation
and tough talk, too.
That is the purple
heartbeat
of this
guardian.
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