June 10, 2025
Patrick Sylvain
Francine’s Bells
I was not yet born when stars
misaligned above your brow.
By four, mom said church bells buzzed
inside your head like bees trapped in a matchbox.
You were beautiful, I remember.
Hair in four long tresses, deep purple gum,
and skin with the scent of fresh-cut watermelon.
I’m not sure how you drifted
into my mind. So long since
anyone spoke your name.
Yet here you are, feeding me
and singing children’s songs.?
I never knew your side of the family.
A feud of color and class deprived me
of a branch I’ll never perch upon.?
I barely knew you.
I was five they took you
to a rural house,
where people like you were kept.?
I shed tears for you, Francine.
I also cried when you threw my supper
against the wall, yelling someone was trying
to poison your only grandchild.
Mom said the bells tolled inside your head,
and it was best to stay away. ?
I remember crumpled stars in your eyes
when you kissed me goodbye,
promising a basket of fruits. ?
I was seven when mom said you went
to heaven. I wondered if the bells tolled
too loudly or if no one was there
to sing you a lullaby?