They live within the worn gray walls
of tin and rain and smoke and time.
They live in the gray of their grandmother's eyes,
as she sits next to the open door,
her hands as empty and shining and torn
as the earth floor.

She tells us she's lonely
and the words break like her soft bones
stuck
in the hush of dust and sunlight,
in the dirty chair.

She kisses our cheeks, and cries
and her tears fill up our eyes
with the softness
worn into her life
by the shadows of the fire that cooks food in the corner.

In a crack between the gray walls,
I find them-- two boys' eyes,
as small and shy and dark
as the puppies they carry, in their arms,
to us.

We wish we could remember how to say they're beautiful
as light falls through the round holes in the tin roof like rain.

*the name of the poem's subject, an old woman I met in costa rica; also means "light" in spanish, which i found to be ridiculously appropiate

Labels: By Ana

It is born cucooned
inside regret. It flutters,
hushed: the loneliness.

Labels: By Ana