Emissary

By Joanne Esser

I wish I could send a sign —
a letter, a photo, a memento —
to the now–old man

locked in the care home.
Though his mind is too delicate,
they tell me, to read, to see

without fear; those gaping holes
in his past threaten
to swallow him every day.

Perhaps if I could be a bird
outside his window.
If some kind aide

would slide open
the unbreakable glass to let in
a fresh autumn breeze,

I’d perch on a branch
where he could hear
my song, the few plaintive notes

that would touch gently
a chord deep inside him
where words no longer reach.

Not the places tinged with shame,
regret, what he wishes he had not
indulged, only the sweetness

of connection, soul to soul,
that happens in this world too rarely.
If only I could fly

in feathered disguise,
my throat release a melody
subtle yet sharp enough

to stir buried
memories, but only
the most pleasant ones:
two hands, tentative, touching.
Or that time we walked
among the lilacs, new,

alive with that fragrance,
innocent of what the future
would impose. That happy.