Carlos Valentin III

Who needs magic letter-counting
or a network of psychic friends
when the last poem I wrote
was about seeing the face of God
in the rind of an orange I had forgotten
I’d left in a desk drawer the day before?

Sliding forward, upward pucker
soft and fresh, pore
to first slick of spring dew.

An ancient etymology.
Syllables underfoot
unfolding across continents,
thousand-year scroll unscraped,
each overwritten character
layering through, spelling new words
with old ink,

Ten days a wisp of smoke
from one ancestral strum to the next
distant guitar on the horizon
stark like a city sunset.

After sitting quietly through her memorial service

words spoken

only when moved

through the Spirit

of her compassion, love of family, and good works,

we partook of meticulously wrapped vegan delicacies,