I’m in grandma’s dining room, watching Jesus stare back.
Fingers interlock and clench as whispered words transcend.
Grandpa’s cold and stiff. He wears make-up—
my grandpa never wore make-up.
Hearts lose beat like off step dancers. No one smiles.
Those grey faced men dug, dug deep
to anchor a frigid framed casket. It holds my once warm abuelo,
drained of his garnet blood, my blood.
Carnations glow like red candles as his casket keeps him.
Pictures, wooden crucifixes, and a rose beaded rosary.
How can I bring you back from the ground?
Crying by your tombstone, won’t you come back into my life?
I stand by your garden now, once vegetables now weeds,
once soil now dirt. I will enrich your earth, I will grow you back.