the cemetery keeper tires of surveilling our graves’ windows.
We trace the memory of rain —
but it dances in the distance where the lilies quake the earth until its dreams unwind.
When my grandfather burned his cave, the demons came out to meet him with wedding preparations.
And as the dream verged on a nightmare, he danced; my mother’s tail bowing to the nudeness of silence.
I have resigned myself to hymns, unlike my grandfather; winter villages ignite in his heart every bakery, a long way from the sounds of hope.
Our roof embraces a crew of honorable dead people.
Near the bends of light my grandmother briefly abandons her modesty to bake the past’s dough for a Reader of Nostalgia, who takes everything she wants from her yet prescribes she swallow more sadness for her grandchildren’s sake.
That’s why, grandmother, don’t approach the catacombs of hope; we are but its dissidents.