Monday, April 25, 2005

For Michael Glen Medina Macaraeg

orange. neon. paint.
plywood painted gray
like the bricks once there.
shatter glass spiral
like milky way galaxies
sparkle under the desert sun.
a stain on the wall
melted wax, wilted petals.
a lamppost marking old graves
with faded balloon ribbon.
a watch face. 2:20.

She is 3.
She does not wear black.
She does not know why mommies cry.
She holds the cross of Jesus in her hands.
She points to empty drive ways and says, "Tito"
She knows there are lots of people.
She waits for the ice cream truck.
She may not remember any of this.
She may not remember you.
She says you are still at work.

We ask for dreams that tell us why.
Though we know there are answers
we are not meant to know.
We laugh despite ourselves.
We are not suppose to bury our children.
We are not supposed to know why.

Go home now.
Amongst prayer beads and incense
Go home now.
Upon the ancestors who will meet you.
Go home now.
To the people you never knew, who knew you always.
Go home.

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