By Sara Kandler
Powder pink ribbons
clipped to my daughter’s hair?
No, a pale loop would be lost
among her free-flung chocolate curls
her spirit that of brazen girls
announcing themselves
in loud colors
and sassy words
I dressed her in stretchy pants
that ripped when roughed along the rocks
or tore when tugged into splits on smooth wood floors
she was free to explore
And she was tough
fell asleep one night
sitting upright
in our bed
arrow-straight like a Degas dancer
bronze head tilted in defiance
of the nonsensical concept of bedtime
Ok, I’ll admit
she did have a pink phase
at about age
two rejecting her older brother’s
hand-me-downs
had me running to the thrift shop
so she could twirl in a rose tutu
and bubble gum turtleneck
her own sensory jubilee
Nowadays we walk together
stand tall
yell out our call
about time for a cure
not in cotton candy pink
but orange and purple swirl
We march for Courage
her coppery arms
beseeching the sun
as she balances on tip-toe
atop an Algarve ledge
a scalpel’s edge
high above crashing waves
And yanks off
the pink rubber bracelet
like the hindering hospital ID band
that was clipped to her wrist
just days before
casting it far
far as she can
past the menacing rocks
out to the open sea.
