Pink

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.