Skirmanté

It’s dark here. We are all
full of rain here. Hold. Press

moon tonight. Guess.

I see now light
opens our room (what
color?) with its curtain
and you, white clothes. I want

what you say, you to speak, know
here. You night-harvest rocks
your mother buried below
a field in your village, your fingers
trenched, cool wind
turns them over. Past bricks
under the grass (your name
hard in them), your grandmother’s
raspberries, fresh air, yellow
wooden houses, small memorial
statues, people not breathing
but not dead, everything you
carefully dig around. Now

sleep well.
I look for where you live.
It’s dark here, separate here.
We are all full of rain.