To the mother holding a portrait of her daughter.

To the toothless, to the sexless. You knobs of a stump.

To the mothers of the imprisoned, the disappeared

& the murdered. You, Niña Juana. You, Doña Concha,

you old hag standing by the road in a burst of light.

You who live with so many candles. What is it

about the creases in your mouth, when it rains quietly

they come alive. You where everything’s a rag, head rag

soaked with rage & the disheveled apron of your mind.

When the light singles you out I get tongue tied. I get

you, you spit & tongue. You who sucked cleaned

the mud off your son. You first to put out the light.

You first person to bury your husband. You withered

bride. You cauldron. You drum. You first may come.