Myth says when one cupped hand whispers of a name
is when you feel the wind breathe out the same
from where you stand—brushing chimes—together as one.

I am writing this in a white broken lawn chair
watching the leaves die each way and still I think of you.
Cousin and I shared your secrets. I wondered, if that wind

wrestled you the same as my branches from wherever
you may float. Did they pick up and take off little by little—
showing bones beetling from dirt off your chest?

Did you death rattle over once more when hearing
of your daughters ache in the surrender of knowing
where she truly comes from, at all?

There are little wars inside my head. One particular scene
playing again after the ink has spread across like widescreen
wild fires and begin over your own spanish revival inside a boat.

Different men after men, different bags with different hair,
different waves and different birds. Different guns and
different embers. Different scars, even different ends.

And all of your many lost, different, children.