Ernesto Trejo
CIPRIANA (1881-1975)
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 .
An old photo. You stand next to your marigolds
(the flower of death, mother tells me)
and I cling to your skirt. How strange to be four,
watching the print on your skirt. Behind us,
rhe paint peeled off the wall all morning,
your honeysuckle thirsted for light, your ivy
found a crevice and went in.
Four years before you had named me .
You never
s~w
the sea or the pelicans
winged like angels . In the end your visions
were
em~arrass~ng:
a granddaughter
sleeping y.ith satan; a voice in every corner,
beckoning;
yo~r
husband, the blind man
lost in prayer, a daddy that would punish .
Today your daughters, aging, won't talk about the end .
I do. I take
th~
§pace in which you lived,
your life, and put it in my pocket, and name you .
