Born between rosemary and leather,
between heavy reins and a tender touch,
palomas turned to doves,
chuparosas to hummingbirds.
Batons slipped through hands
from generation to generation.
Each taught the next to maneuver and
balance
before fingers overlapped, and strength
fathomed
any limit.
Nina Luz,
How is it—a woman
with such a grounded presence
felt so alone and isolated?
You wished for your feet to be back, near
ciruelos you’d fly to in May,
harvest and sun-dry,
and return in June
to hand us sweet pieces of your homeland.
Who told you
to pour your sorrows
onto curious
trinkets, cats,
intricate embroidery,
pothos, and sketchbooks?
Who told you
hummingbirds
sucking nectar from purple milkweed
offer the simplest form of joy?
Nina Tacha, how
did you pave your way?
First person in your municipality
to offer rural children an education
and extend a home to students who lived far away.
How did you keep your spirit alive for 105 years?
You’d offer six-year-old me coffee then.
But now sounds have changed form.
I tread in darkness
holding bristled reins gingerly.
Was it ever any different?
I wish to tell you hooves still hit the earth in the same rhythm,
the birds still sing their songs,
and the knife chopping into a wooden cutting board
still sows love.
Happiness meets the tongue.
Love enhanced by the fruit of the Earth,
astringent when taken for granted
grasping the knot at my throat.
I listen in hopes of finding you
in wind, ocean waves, maybe the flaps of a bird.
To extend into my chest,
and say
thank you.
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