we were raised in a silver home.
a bazaar built up
in warmth
in superstitions
in plastic nails
and velvet couches.
with instruments on walls
and carpets
on ceilings. sundays
were for family.
lace tablecloths layered with
lamb,   oil,   dandelions.
the ritual of fire and a prayer with oil.
a light touch on the forehead
from my grandmother's hand.
to lift a curse that can only be
broken by a man
taught by a
woman
filtered through
ancient tongues were about to lose.
i just want to bring her jasmine home;
let it seep into
my doorways
too.
her home's bones
smell of it
how she watches it bloom
at night.
as a child you'd filter through
the white bulbs looking for
the fattest to ****
dry.
take me home
where the jasmine grows
in warm soil, in barrels, in warm village kitchens.


let her gift you with her heirlooms
see how she unfolds them from
their caskets.
how she left them to your hands.
i didn't understand their threads,
the white wool wrapped with thin red
lines,
but then she cried
and all her years
shook inside of her.