In the dark I am crawling
on the bedroom floor of my sister’s cancer memory,
asking, do you need to pee?
We are whisper laughing.
I am waving
my arms, demonstrating
Shiva’s dance over the pygmy
Taking credit for love, I am dancing
at a Mexican Hindu wedding,
where I later leave a dead woman’s shawl hanging
on the back of a seat.
Dust is collecting
on two boxes of animal ashes: Mojo and Siami.
I am questioning the dream
of my father’s mother never smiling,
of my advancing lips, her turning cheek.
That photo? This is what I believe:
It was only a sunfrown she made, holding her new baby.
The story is mother’s mother was never mean.
The dead are storytelling me.