I forget,

All the time, That June isn’t mine.

That I’m not the only one.

Not the only one you gave the gift,

Not the only one whose song you sing,

Whose joy you bring,

But June is mine.

You told me the 12th,

That the 6th was a lie.

You whispered in my Mama’s ear

“Go home, go see the blackbirds fly.”

And the yard was covered.

Until a storm blew by, the blackbirds kissed the night.

The house is the house that Mickey built,

And the blood is the blood that ‘Bah madly spilled.

The touch was the tug of Nuestra Madre, she lives,

And the hole is the hole that

Your genius now fills.

But June is mine.