Madre

I breathe in and
Mother breathes me
in sinews, in fingernails
in atoms and ripples
of fragrant blood

Composting my sorrows
she makes good of
even the most errant clashes
and stirs chaos
to the consistency of froth.

Somewhere in the old country
a bell chimes
and my body comes to
life, remembering

With a good wind
I can count on the tightening
to return,
to my throat, to my vulnerable
memes of recall

Madre, as she is known,
is speaking to me through the sailing wind,
through moist earth
through salient song
with nothing short of miracles.

And this drum, now
this ancient pulse of
courage and doom and revival
is all I need to
remember.

I breathe out blood
my own blood
the blood of every living relative
I’ve ever been.