Central Park, Carousel Poem by Meena Alexander

June already, it's your birth month,
nine months since the towers fell.
I set olive twigs in my hair torn
from a tree in Central Park,
I ride a painted horse,
its mane a sullen wonder.
You are behind me on a lilting mare.
You whisper- What of happiness?
Dukham, Federico.
Smoke fills my eyes. Young,
I was raised to a sorrow song
short fires and stubble on
a monsoon coast.
The leaves in your cap are very green.
The eyes of your mare never close.
Somewhere you wrote: Despedida.
If I die leave the balcony open!