- The spirits of Los Muertos fly in, millions of them,
- as always, right on time for the day of the dead,
- knowing their way three thousand miles
- home from their annual exile in el norte.
- .
- The hated cracker father lives through tubes,
- his tormented wife and five grown children
- standing by, filled with the the sight of his dying,
- unsure of how to feel when the sumbitch lets go.
- His legacy acids through their lives, scarring generations.
- .
- The venerable gingko drops every leaf
- in one quick release, giving way completely,
- holding nothing back, knowing it will
- burgeon forth at the appointed time,
- as it always has.
- .
- The queens of heaven sink out of sight
- and we do not miss them,
- knowing they aren't gone,
- just circling over other eyes, for now.
- .
- None of this surprises.
- But when word comes
- that the ancestors have died,
- all of them, all at once,
- millions of wings stilled,
- grounded, acres of them
- in delicate airy layers
- up to our pollened calves,
- we freeze in place,
- as they have,
- not wanting to shatter
- their fragile cadavers,
- not knowing
- what has happened here.
- .
- Stunned, we join their icy stillness.
