She counts the villagers’ secrets. Marigolds already have begun gathering souls back with their scent as they tilt toward sunlamps beneath floorboards, while smiling wooden calacas hide in closets, in cupboards, their skeleton faces hewn by candlelight.

We are the memory
of water

the rain inside us
knows
it has to return
where it comes from;

Remember to yourself
your shadow’s
memory, forest-heavy and

lost by the river
that runs around
your bedroom: you wonder

No one speaks of the dande-
lion’s metamorphosis
That it opens and closes and
Opens again with easy agility

I know I am an old son when I talk 
to my parents who are ninety years old,   

but when I speak to my son I barely switch  
my role to a father

You lift your glass to toast us: 
a glistening fist in the air  

and lean back in your chair—satisfied 
before we’ve even begun.

When coyotes start barking and worrying,
and a string of cows and calves rushes
to their barns in obscure directions
I’ll crawl into the backseat
and hum myself to sleep in harmony
with the silent engine.