Absence turned emptiness in his ribs
just three years old
when my father’s mother died

How could he know
there are so many ways a moon can eclipse
the sound in your throat

He kept her picture in his pocket
a face caged in story
eyes slate gray yearning

Abuela I never knew you
I press the picture to my cheek
a moth ghosts my skin

Longing: a mottled field of spring
swallowing desire

In dreams we dance on the riverbed
Abuela kicks up her heels
split red pomegranates

She feeds me fire I swallow flames
fearless in muscle & skin
my shadow burns smolders curls

Morning unspools a luminous sky
something worth naming
blooms beautiful

What is a wound but a fire
kindled & fed