Under water you are still an iri­des­cent trace of  corners pealed 

sunbeam and sunset  stay with us  soul and dust 

 whisper of flame in hand you bloom  (________) 

in no ripple drift­ing by in your mother’s eye silence of voice 

in gasp in want in need in exhaus­tion       in agitation 

in dis­so­ci­at­ed memory  recall­ing a phone call singing 

amidst the clings of music  and the counts of laughter 

body breath­less steps making way through the 

waters of sound to reach your mother 

to find her awaken  by grit­ting teeth  a fra­grant of silence 

in a body so still,  it grew out of her and stirred 

the beats and swings and taps to be a tongue so restless 

to be ash  and to be lost  in morning in miles  of you 

she was held tightly  violet and Sunday seeking the divine 

in a room of sun and soil  an untaught silence we know 

of someone’s child  family and blood 

of a smile  we’d believed to see  again one day 

through rivers or mountains  to not forget 

unfor­giv­ing country  we remain in place  listen to her scream 

molten and awake 

LIZETH DE LA LUZ is a Mexican Amer­i­can poet from Cal­i­for­nia. She writes about the frus­tra­tions of lan­guage bar­ri­ers, learned bar­ri­ers, and the anx­i­eties of living/loving/grieving in a Mexican body in the United States. Her work has been pub­lished in City Works, Short Vine, and Latino Lit­er­a­tures.