Camposanto

You are an old, brown photograph.
From the foot of your bed
I look down at you,
     we are silent and stare
into each others' eyes
  I see every part of you
and I remember

your black hair and the hats you wore
the flowers you stuck in them
in your Papa's fields those long summers

the white dress at your quinceniera
how they looked at you
the flowers in your hands
coy pride in your dark eyes
 Beautiful me, your eyes said and
looked down at your hands and
flowers, raised them to your chest
lowered your head to smell

Papa's guarded jita at school
the pencil in your hand
hard at your lessons

the Sisters make you speak and write only in English
  but they do not hear you in the yards
or at home, you thought with pride
the little furrow between your eyebrows
on unlined skin

your voice raised at play
with the other girls in the yard
or on the dusty road home
your Spanish songs wove through picket fences
and fell to the ground like ribbons

the cold air came and took your songs
and you took to rest in your bed of earth
where I see you now.
You should be a grandmother.