After Aracelis Girmay You old woman with a walker on the cobblestone roads
wearing shimmer and radiant lilac saying “excuse me, its my birthday”
as I kiss your cheek, touch your arm and say “Feliz en tu dia”
You climbing over me, pulling me toward you, cuddle of a 1000 suns in your body of 28lbs
Saying, I miss you mami,
It is you my sky, I love you mi Cielo
You who asks, anyone can write a poem?
Anyone?
With disbelief and mischief in your eyes.
You who run into burning buildings, the smallest and mightiest of the group
Calling orders to men who follow every command.
You.
You who gave gifts from the heart, tossed with kindness and little fanfare
You who wield a machete against grass in the postage stamp size yard
Who cured cuts with iodine, who used your big hands and soft heart to su-su-su-su-su—little ones to sleep
You who did not know you were going mad, who found solace in substances,
who tried and failed to be well
You who wanders the street looking for a home that doesn’t hurt, you
You who left a long legacy of love despite being felled by hate and possession
You who cleans the graves, who orders evergreen blankets in secret,
You who cuts and collages the photos, who tucks them into frames, who tends to the memory
You who smiles at the sight of a child getting an ice cream cone from the truck
laughing in delight as the child screams “chocolate ice cream with chocolate sprinkles!”
I love you both, the witness and the child
You taking your last breath, and you taking your first
You singing on your way out of this world and you holding their hand as they ascend
And you too in the corner, shy and out of place, I love you
You by the river with your baby, reveling in their joy
You planting the seed of the avocado you just ate from your father’s favorite tree
You slicing pana, and mangoes, and parcha, and carambola for your guests who are your family and also your most sacred visitors
You cutting your grandmother’s nails, and braiding her hair as she lay in her final days
You laughing over cafecito with your kin and you exhausted from the day preparing for your long journey home
You little animal who spins and squeals at the sight of your gone too long person
Who I love is you.
You and all those who make your life possible in this lifetime
and in the next.
Written 1/13/25 in a writing workshop with Ana Portnoy Brimmer