Maybe you were moonflowers

most beautiful and blossomed at night,

and tough like roses

in your grandmother’s garden

during drought. In your eyes,

someone

saw the night sky and all its infinity

and one time, a constellation

reflected in the river

you swam in together

until morning light

erased the stars.

Now someone somewhere is saying,

I miss your voice like rivers miss the stars.

I wish I could return you to the living,

to your hands

on the day you got your nails done pretty

when your cousin maybe told you,

Giiiirl, you’re looking sharp,

and you laughed and gave her a look–(sharp?)

is something your grandmother would say.

I wish I could return you to your laughter,

could say,

here is your heart back, I found it

in the canyon buried

beneath your dreams

and the prayer

that once wished you into the world.

Here are your troubles back,

your temper, here

is your rebel soul.

I don’t want them back, you say

you are wind now, you

have returned

teeth and bones

calcium

from ancient exploding stars,

nebula–

keeping your ancestors company.