For us, the ancestors came too early
slipping in and out of doorways,
rustling like silk
grief a perfume lodged in our throats.
For us, the heart is a continuously open wound.
We mourn elders denied
making families where river meets sea
sweet bleeding into salt
salt drinking in sweet
until all boundaries cease.
Maybe this is why we love so helplessly
stretching the word far beyond its modest capacity:
there are always more names to speak alive
new gods on our altars
many spirits who sleep in our beds
receiving our bodies as offerings.
Copyright © 2025 by Chibueze Crouch-Anyarogbu. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on February 10, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
