There are all kinds of stories to be told;
some are born of substance in special languages,
hypnotizing and teasing
where words are just a quirk of the mind,
an image or other intangible reminiscence.
They come complete as apples,
repeated without risking
an alter in meaning and reality.
Others remain hidden in the shadows of memory
like living organisms rooting themselves out into the flesh,
their tentacles are filled with adhesions and pain,
becoming the stuff of nightmares
to exorcise the demons of memory
it is necessary tell them as they are:
We hadn’t learnt to deal with the reflection of our fear.
In blue misty shadows, I remember your smile playing in my eyes
and the time you cried when I said I was leaving; but you always
knew I’d never go …
This month I’ll layout marigolds and flowers of the souls
leaving thirteen layers of heavens between us
while placing una copa de tequila, pan de muerto,
y fotos de ti upon the altar.
I’ll burn the incense and light the candles
as I say a prayer for you,
“Let us consider things as only lent to us, oh, friends;
Only in passing are we here on earth;
Tomorrow or the day after,
As your heart desires, oh, Giver of Life,
We shall go, my friends, to His home.”