Abuela, Mi Muerta
I find you here,
In the gardening section at Lowe’s.
Not the house where my mother learned her silence
Or the backyard with water hose for sprinkler.
Not the crippled languages of my youth
Or the eight-house-long walk to stained glass windows.
You, clearance rose bush.
No longer a myth.
Not ghost or bone,
Only wilt. No drown or surrender
Today, my own unbecoming.
I cannot make promises on blood anymore, Abuela.
I’ve stopped asking the trees permission to climb them.
I’ve forgotten to water the plants
To call each flower by name.
Today, your own death in another body.
I’ve nowhere to bury you.
93 The Paris-American
Amaris Diaz was born and raised in San Antonio, Texas. She currently resides in San Marcos, Texas, where she is finishing up a B.A. in English from Texas State University this summer. She spends her free time reading, writing, and worrying that doing so is a waste of time. She hopes that graduate school will take her just far enough.
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