Ño
Para los balseros
There is no country
where the dead don't float
Men and children going,
having gone, lungwet
across thickened water.
Be it the body to know
what's missing. To call
back the colors. At sea
the stomach is a bugle,
although I've heard it
called a scream.
Oil drums headless
as monarchs, styrofoam
on the knees. Said of
a thing: under or over.
Here or there.
The orchids are lovely
this time of year
and the women, writing.
What covers the land
and is the land—
much in us still.
