I never learned where or when you died 
till we had circled the earth for a year after. 
Tante Elfi, the days of summer are too long, 
I told you, West Berlin a nocturnal city, 
where I played pool and cooked carne asada 
in the Mexican restaurant along the wall. 
I would look at the watchtowers 
of East Berlin and think of you. 
Did I tell you when I crossed the wall to visit you 
they took all the can openers I bought since 
you asked for them? There was a shortage. 
The guard said I needed only one and took them. 
But you were grateful for the one. 
I never understood why you stayed in the gray city, 
with modern concrete blocks for buildings 
and a playground out your door. 
No grass, no weeping willows like the ones 
I passed by on Paul-Linke canal to cook 
beans and burritos. 

I never wept for you. 
I loved you like a child loves most aunts, 
a shadow of mother-love, 
and you practically raised my mother fiercely, 
until you became a shy cat in the corner 
of communism’s iron home, 
and I couldn’t bridge that, 
couldn’t understand the clapping at the parade 
you made me watch last time I saw you. 

When Uncle Hugo died, 
you could have come west. 
When the wall fell, you remained 
loyal to the Jewish man who escaped Dachau 
with the help of the communists. 
Your addiction to speed made your hands shake. 
Your rust-red hair was the same color 
as the graffiti on the wall, Glaube, Believe. 

I said to you once, Come west, 
we have the tools to open 
and the freedom of nights, 
a nocturne of a city bathed in color. 
But you never came. 
You became Christian when the regime fell 
and worshipped Jesus in place of Honecker. 

Today I am watering my plants. 
I remember how barren your apartment was, 
with red plastic chairs and nothing living inside. 
My lily is so thirsty and blooming now. 
It makes me believe in spring. 
It makes me believe you have found a home 
where the garden creeps through the cracks 
along a wall we never asked for, 
never wanted at all. 

Bio: Kika Dorsey