Paschal

On a pilgrimage with my brother
to pay homage to our sister’s new child.

A path around the mountain, past tiered adobe houses
dusted white, dusted tan,

dusted with powdered sugar and cocoa,

climb the right ladder to the white hut, and there,

on a bed on stilts that rests on the dusted floor,

she is.

My sister’s daughter.

Eyes oval and complex like a fly’s,
rainbow sheens across the countless facets of their lenses,

facets arrayed like tiles on a roof.
She’s big, too, and learns quickly.
It seems like a secret,

a bond, because I remember the interminable wait
for my little brother to learn to speak,

but this one already understands.
Quick to learn,

and already trying to soften things for other people.

Even if no one else can, I can see
that Fly already knows how to move out of the way,

to put the broom within my sister’s reach.
It seems like a sweet, if sad, trait,

but my mother, Fly’s grandmother, speaks.

Marked.

By her eyes, she’s marked.

I knew about that, but not about the way Fly’s skin scars,

tender to the touch like a the skin of flu patient.

Marked, but so what? I’m marked too.

But my mother the witch, the wise woman --
she says it’s a sign of no good,

like Fly’s cleverness, too. She’s a changeling.

And I can already see my sister fading
as she foresees that the child will get taken away.

I can see now why Fly tries so hard to please even on this,
her second day of life.

I understand about being different,
about the cleverness you develop
in trying to pay off a guilt that was never your birthright.

Whose guilt is it? And who will pay for the loss of this one?