1
There were trains that went in the tunnels
and never came out. The eyes of horses
focused and trotted to their deaths.
The corn slept in the cistern
and was rotted when it woke.
2
An old photo. You are next to your marigolds
(the flower of death, mother tells me)
and I cling to your skirt. How strange to be 4,
watching the print on your skirt. Behind us
the paint peeled off the wall all morning,
your honeysuckle thirsted for light, your ivy
found a crevice and went in.
3
You never saw the sea or the pelicans
winged like angels. In the end, your visions
were embarrassing: a granddaughter
sleeping with Satan; a voice in every corner,
beckoning; your husband, the blind man
lost in prayer, a daddy that would punish.
Your daughters, aging, won’t talk about the end.
I do. I take the space in which you lived,
your life, and put it in my pocket, and name you.
(Ernesto Trejo)
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Based on Topics: Life Poems, Light Poems, Death & Dying Poems, Morning Poems, Prayers Poems, Mothers Poems, Angels Poems, Space Poems, Daughters Poems, Punishment Poems, Old Age PoemsBased on Keywords: cistern, trotted, pelicans, thirsted, peeled, embarrassing, granddaughter