Dia de los Muertos
11-8-13
I see my father’s face in mine--below
the look I wear when I’m not wearing one
--and under his face, fathers in a row.
Between the skull and skin my life gets done.
My mother’s eyes read sorrow like a book
(in dreams I paint my own eyes blue with ink).
A thousand thousand mothers know the look:
a window over hands inside a sink.
Speak, skulls, now you’re past all grab and shove,
and answer with a final heartless breath:
Is memory the skeleton of love,
or love’s enduring body after death?
And take these marigolds to wear, a wreath
to crown the bones that grew from dragon’s teeth.
