Words Are Reassembly
If words are reassembly
of skeleton,
which white bones
do I pull lengua from?
I ask myself
I ask my father
my grandmother
no one can remember where –
Reclaim
plummeted branches
from oldest Ahuehuete at dusk
as red fingers blot out
a tongue
generations forgotten –
I, thin green strip off –
center
fallen but
lifts then,
to seep into the red
just barely,
barely.
