Without my great-uncle
we’re suddenly poor,
so the dusty old rooms
and orchard-like courtyard
should feel solemn and silent, but no—
Serapia continues to chatter as she cooks,
and Goyo still weaves legends while he weeds
between fruit trees.
Serene moments are spent reading
under the jícaro gourd tree, beside la granada,
the pomegranate with ruby-red seeds
that offer such a messy adventure,
their brilliant hue
one of glittering gems
in a pirate’s treasure chest,
the taste making me think of distance—a ship
sailing off into the sunset, my hands so juicy
that a few pages of each precious book
end up stained, as if the story has absorbed
bright light from my own glowing
daydreams.