Bodega | Yesterday, like Honey

There is not enough room for sadness, here.

Not even our arms pulped with each other can

make God limitless. Do you remember this?

Abuela’s hands, wired with freckle & bone &

time, how she waved in a way that meant

the strawberries have begun to rot. I understood,

then. I know who God is. I know how to

remember death in its final form before

asking, Can you help me? Can you fucking

help me?

The casket drifts upwards. A memory lives

long enough to cradle us to sleep

before answering to the bend itself. Yes,

we remade this world to learn to devastate

again. Not even the yellows frothing our mouths

can make us shadowless. God listens—our

drawls so languid it almost sounds like a song.

Yesterday, like Honey