PORTRAIT OF GRIEF TWO YEARS POST TRAUMA
The poet said Regarding loss, I’m
afraid to keep it in the story. I packed
two thousand seventeen photos
of Mama. Same way she boxed one
thousand ninety images of Papa, years
past. Portraits flinging four thousand
seven pounds of dirt on her, us,
soot-filled histories, charred coffins,
stale white flakes. Wilderness hunger is
a wilder kind of hunger. You taste
rocks on your eyelids.
Aedes aegypti breaks the
skin, sucks for blood in
a corpse. Temperature
changes drastically in the
desert. Should I wear a prayer
or walk on a mirage?
I am still thirsty.