Truth Is An Orange Canary From Lisbon

Reading my mother’s decades-old letters
fluttering blue aerogrammes
written edge to paper edge, no margins
I want to find some truth, some reason
for abandonment but all I find is the mention
of an orange canary she bought while
her ship docked in Lisbon.
Truth is an orange canary, then,
a ship, a steamer trunkful of paintings,
silver jewelry she cast in the lost wax method,
a journey through the Panama Canal,
…..why don’t you write to me?
…..nobody understands me
…..sometimes I want to die

Truth is one year away then
many years gone. An orange canary
in a wicker cage. A song never heard.
Her trips to Barcelona, Malta, Rome,
Eleusis where my mother sang
oracles while all the cameras stopped
working and the ancient stones wept.
Truth is a pale winter, the cold bells of Venice,
acqua alta, Salvador Dali’s mustache,
…..I have no money, could you send?
…..nobody understands me I am an artist
…..I must be free no one appreciates
canvas, turpentine, oils
brushes, palette, cadmium orange.

Truth is, there is none,
unless I count the hills of Lisbon
ascending to cobalt sky
or descending to a sea blistered
with light, a woman walking
through the open market one afternoon
sees an orange canary, his song
thrilling her heart as she forgets
everything she regrets until the canary
I never saw, rests in the palm of time.
Truth is not a feather on the scales of justice
but the orange wing of fire, dusk,

Garibaldi, exile, trumpet flowers flung
from the hot forge of forgiveness.