On Día de los Muertos,
my grandparents and their siblings visit me
as hummingbirds and woodpeckers
outside my window.
They tell me to be ready.
Change comes whether or not invited;
may as well leave the window open
for Spider Woman to deliver what she will
and trap what mustn’t come in.
My marigolds would stain my fingers
if not dried.
I deadhead the bushes in my garden,
and you help me
pluck, pinch, pluck.
I sit with you under the shade and trade stories,
and you help me,
plucking ones I’ve been hiding away
under covers and wool blankets from home.
I sit, trying to be patient.
I arrange my ofrenda:
books for Charles,
fishing wire for Chee.
This is my first year without a grandpa here,
and I feel it deeper than I want to.
I hope God brings me good dreams
despite all my sins.
I hope my grandparents are proud
despite my naivety.
I rarely ask for forgiveness;
I only try to grow beautiful things as
recompense to Earth
and hope her soil finds me in no offense
someday.
I take the woodpecker’s knocks on my window
as confirmation, and I don’t mind
being woken up by it.
They tell me to be ready.
Change comes
through the bedroom window,
through the cracks in the warping floorboards,
up through the roots of your marigolds,
and cilantro and sage.
Be ready.
Be ready.
I wish I knew what for.
