given is that we were born, and that we were born of choice,
the endless distances seem to grow when they should align.
you bowed yourself until you became a symbol, a sign
that was elegy to yourself before you were a voice.
older than me. i followed and was yours, to mould your own.
little person looking upwards, always upwards, too.
you took my hands and made them cook, made them big, brave and do.
‘to make do’ was not within you, is all i’ve ever known.
you would sing, before you died, and equally i was thrown;
broken bodied, i stood. i might never have left you.
to see such life before such death. a bittersweet adieu,
to think; one day, within me a tiny you might be grown.
i, young me, can only imagine that they would rejoice
at the first sight of you, as would i if you were mine
but we were theirs, and we came equally prone and supine,
and were elegies to ourselves before we ever had your voice.