Vigora by Annika Bey

Vigora

An altar, in a polished frame: a photo of you

on a dock

smiling at a camera over your shoulder.

You in your greenness,

with half the knowledge you would acquire,

I hate how much I love that photo.

This isn’t you as I knew you.

This is the palatable you.

Clean taste and smooth swallow.

How can I treasure that photo?

Lies.

I know how.

I don’t even know your name!

I know you only as what you are to me -

Oma

Pretty little thing in the frame.

How honoured I am

our blood is the same.

Youth is sweet dew,

but it is not true.

It looks good on everyone, especially you.

Wrought iron is as you were.

Ignore this,

dried flowers are better pressed.

To me, you are a photo,

and a gold watch,

and another’s memory.

Through your name,

and your teeth,

we strip you down to sugar.

You, in death,

are nothing more than a beautiful

trinket to wear ‘round my neck.

My god, am I sorry.

You hated him?

No - just his house you hated?

We would’ve gotten along.

I think we did.

Long gone, I can’t remember.

I’m sorry! How often must I say it?

Red hair, not blonde.

Green eyes, yes?

From anecdote colours,

I render an image of you;

45 lines, how did I do?