There is no death between these hands
Or: Maria. A poem.
Published in
Dec 1, 2022
51, this woman lying under the same weighted blanket as me
looks younger, or just about her age.
Cook at a small café, 2 meters of a kitchen, music from a land she left now time ago.
To come back home.
She holds my hand at night. She lets me hold her as I suffer.
Tremors take hold
Of my hands, my capacity to breathe. A lament from that same humid land.
This is what kept me alive.
Mum a small creature for whom the seas fought over.
I screamed; I threw my phone against the darkening wall, myself on the floor.
30 years old.
Mami, help me.
Help me still.
And we fall back asleep, as the cat reclaimed her place as the one who sleeps next to her.
