—for my children

I see her doing something simple, paying bills,
or leafing through a magazine or book,
and wish that I could say, and she could hear,

that now I start to understand her love
for all of us, the fullness of it.

It burns there in the past, beyond my reach,
a modest lamp.

What is home: 
it is the shade of trees on my way to school
    before they were uprooted.
It is my grandparents’ black-and-white wedding 
    photo before the walls crumbled. 
It is my uncle’s prayer rug, where dozens of ants
   slept on wintry nights, before it was looted and 
   put in a museum. 
It is the oven my mother used to bake bread and 
   roast chicken before a bomb reduced our house 
   to ashes. 
It is the café where I watched football matches
   and played—

My child stops me: Can a four-letter word hold
   all of these? 

All my loved ones are gone

Those who inhabited my distant town

How I miss
A moment of a glance
An enigmatic smile
That contagious laugh
The hand gently placed on a hip
The nodding head
The moment of empathy
When I felt loved and accepted

My dead relatives

Pulses of life that
Explode in an instant
Then fade away
Twinkling, flickering
In the air of the times

I will join them one day
I will cross the veil
Between palm trees and flamboyanes
I’ll hug them if they want me to
Or will watch them from afar

Now their memory
—And sometimes a shadow passing by, a gentle touch, tiny sounds— 
Accompany me in the afternoons

It’s what I share with them

They left a trace in my days
An unfathomable beauty
A slight sadness

My dead relatives

Ineffable testimonies
Of the love that permeates
Existence

Mis familiares muertos

Se han ido todos mis muertos

Los que habitaban mi pueblo lejano

Cómo extraño
El segundo de una mirada
La sonrisa enigmática
Aquella risa contagiosa
La mano en la cadera
La cabeza que asiente
El instante de empatía
En que me sentí querida y aceptada

Mis familiares muertos

Pulsos de vida que
Estallan en un instante
Luego se desvanecen
Rutilantes, parpadeando
En el aire de los tiempos

A ellos me uniré algún día
Cruzaré el velo
Entre palmeras y flamboyanes
Los abrazaré, si quieren
O los contemplaré a distancia

Ahora su memoria
—Y a veces sus celajes, toques leves, ruiditos—
Me acompañan en las tardes

Es lo que comparto con ellos

Dejaron un rastro en mis días
Una belleza insondable
Una suave tristeza

Mis familiares muertos

Testimonios inefables
Del amor que permea
La existencia         

My grandmother sat at the head of her oak table 
one Labor Day afternoon & in a lull turned to me & said 
all the people I knew are dead. When she fixed those two words, I knew, 

I felt my heart in the world beat its blood through thin chambers. The constant 
rush still interrupts the body I didn’t make, but keep breathing somehow
& functioning until I can’t, & the night before she died, I felt the easing of her spirit, 

& the same when my aunt died the year before. I still say to my still-grieving 
cousin I’m here—an echo of her mother’s absence, & we are left 
together on this side of unknowing, stack like throwing bricks 

all the finite seasons we have 
& will spend without them. Up against my own lifetime
I wish for fog, early morning. Instead, unpredictable years keep emptying.