Think of the mountains
the day my aunt opened a door
with news of Princess Diana's death.
The same day I learned there was a Princess from Wales,
she was taken from me.
I was young and over breakfast
we prayed. With no television,
I used my imagination to conjure a chase scene,
a long tunnel, England, cars wrapping around each other,
the retching of steel. I also remember picturing
a fancy Chauffeur, eyes flickering in the rearview mirror,
sweat dancing on his forehead.
It was not hard to imagine a princess.
All princesses are pretty and wear gowns
with heavy jewelry about their small necks.
It was hard to imagine one dead.
Later, we took on puzzles, Alaska series.
Fitting 500 pieces together by their shapes
until some nature scene was laid before us.
I took the final piece,
ran my finger along the convoluted edge,
fit it snugly into its squiggly home.
It was a waterfall.
Behind the part where the waterfall meets the pool at the bottom and surges, tufting the water
and throwing a low mist,
she smiled coyly.
Her white gown hung on a branch, her silver necklace
laid over a rock on the pebbly shore.
I knew she was pretty, I just knew it.
Brilliant, she cries, before dipping her head under
for one, long swim.
How could we hear her
over all that thunderous noise?
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