^{For Michele Serros (1966- 2015)}

This could have been an ode 
to your fur coat, to your gold shoes
stuck in the mud outside Salinas,
to tilled acres, to grandmothers
that live in the house, to poets
reading poems at Lollapalooza,
to cassettes and cassette tape 
iphone cases, to water tower
selfies in strange front yards,
to wide laced hats, comadre-
only tea times, vegan tamales,
50 year old quinceñeras and
East LA punk bands named 
Edward James Olmos. 

Begging your pardon, Doña,
your Joven should be writing
an ode to the bullhorn 
you used at the gallery 
en La Mision, San Pancho.
I should be writing an ode 
to La Mickey, La Giggles, and
La Chicana Falsa’s whispers
extinguishing sound from lips,
an ode to whispers fishing laughs 
from bellies, whispers draining 
eyes of their tears, whispers
lifting asses from seats,
some loud ass street dude
making a mess in aisle five,
fierce incantatory whispers 
pulling hands into other hands 
clap clap clapclap clapping,
more tears, an ode to tears,
an ode to laughter, an ode 
to Tias who said you’d never
become a writer, nunca.

And that moon? That moon
over 24th street just as loud 
as gold shoes in the mud,
loud as wide laced hats,
loud as a fake fur coat,
loud as candle flames 
on a dark night in Berkeley.
Dark like the night you left.
An ode to the darkness 
for making us see
that moon, those candles,
an ode to Celia’s prayer,
to Ester’s bracelets lifted 
in the air, an ode to 
holding hands 
in bedroom, in living room,
down steps, floating, 
more tears, floating 
over neighbor’s 
tossed white petals,
that candlelight again, 
that moon again, floating
into the big limousine.
Do you remember, Doña? 
Do you remember how 
the moon came to see
you off? Down Ashby,
Adeline, Broadway
to Oxnard,
to Oxnard.
I should be writing 
an ode to the sea
in Oxnard,
in Oxnard. 
And I know you left us
on a skateboard
sneaker kicked, pushed 
over fresh streets
swerving
under bent knees
around the cliffs
on the 101,
your hand,
your fingers
waving in the breeze
to the waves, 
to the sand
to the sun,
to the fields,
and all those 
pretty goddamned
things. 
I should be writing
an ode to your fingers. 
Don’t leave, Doña.
Your fingers.
You're still 
kicking, 
You're still 
pushing, gliding.
Your fingers
gently brush 
the repeating 
yellow lines
in the road: gone.