a plethora of oaks
timelessly alive.
our names are carved
on every single one.

a symbol of us.

even your mother is afraid of speaking your name.
she looks at her shaking hands,
tears on her eye ducts,
lips barley parted,
and feels.

you never quite came back.

the paintings of you and her
can never describe
the burn she feels on her tongue
when she is forced to call
for you.

you are the lullaby
she sings every night,
while doused in witch hazel.

how silly it is
that even though she is
the giver of life,
she yearns for it
at every mention
of your absence.

there is a woman who knows more about loss
than she does of forgiveness.

she bathes every evening in warm water and salt
because she once saw el curandero prepare a bath
for the man who screamed every night
after he met the black-haired devil.
the mixture is suppose to heal.

she brushes her long thick black hair
with a wide-toothed comb.
it reminds her of the way he pulled her hair
when she would try to leave him.
it always made her come back
for more.

she rubs baby oil on her skin while droplets of water
are still running down her body.
they swerve around her chest,
clash near her bellybutton,
and sneak in between her thighs.

but even with all the salt baths and baby oil
the skin on her knees is still ashy
and dark.

she wonders if it is from kneeling too much as a child.
when she would kneel with her sister at church
rezando for the return of their fathers.
each a man who left their mother in pedazos.
they were actually praying for their mother.

or if it was from the holy act of making love.
when she would get down on her knees for him.
praying to receive more.
having his hands pull her hair,
push her closer to him,
to take him all in.

she finds herself praying for the return of her loss rather than for forgiveness every night before sleep.

he said to me
your eyes are stained
the brown spots in your sclera
are like sun spots
cool
dark
common
your gaze does not burn me

i turned away and said
that is true
i may only be as bright as the moon
but my eyes pull in more than tides
they are magnets
attracting everything towards me
the hostess of solar flares
i may not burn you
but i am a storm