Grandma’s Resting Place
Parched, her crooked fire ant fingers
pinch my pupil’s membrane
breaking the water from its shell.
Sip my cool brown, Abuela.
Thread my lashes to my brows
stretch my lids one inch wider.
Flat, taut, dissected eye.
Want to see her resting.
Arms spread, legs sprawled
body twisted over purple baby budding azaleas.
The green of her irises peeled, shaved flesh
floating, fighting their way into the black of my curl.
Trying to wring her from my hair
seizuring hands milking over and under and through.
Now, I can leak your scent.
It is damp, like the wood cuatros are carved from.
A fragrance as sharp as a slice of piqued bamboo.
Can I have a piece of you?
Take your chopped swelled burgundy tongue,
fold it into the longest crease of my palm?
The weight of it will
instruct me to clench those buds
in my white-knuckled grasp
as if somebody just called my mother a spic liar.
I will punch through the earth’s body
bed you sleep on, tunnel that tongue
deep, deep in this dirt.
Baste it with sliced ribbons from the light heel of my foot.
Water it with the loving froth from my mouth.
Watch you grow.about the author