host

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.