Abuela, Mi Muerta by Amaris Diaz

I find you here,
In the gardening section at Lowe’s.
Not the house where my mother learned her silence
Or the backyard with water hose for sprinkler.
Not the crippled languages of my youth
Or the eight-house-long walk to stained glass windows.

You, clearance rose bush.
No longer a myth.
Not ghost or bone,
Only wilt. No drown or surrender
But ungrowing.

Today, my own unbecoming.
I cannot make promises on blood anymore, Abuela.
I’ve stopped asking the trees permission to climb them.
I’ve forgotten to water the plants
To call each flower by name.

Today, your own death in another body.
I’ve nowhere to bury you.

From: https://www.theparisamerican.com/amaris-diaz-poetry.html

Date: 2013

By: Amaris Diaz (1995- )


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