No sweeter air than the breeze that brushes the ankles
of the Lebanese women in their shift dresses
You can dress my naked genome up.
You can teach it art and poetry,
but it will pace the corners of the night
grunting, ‘Something else. There’s something else.’
In a sea beneath a sea without a name
where waters gathered to a clarity
that was also sorrow.
“Isa, this package came for you.” Mamãe sets a box in front of my cereal bowl.
“It’s from Vó Ziza,” I say. My granny, Ziza, lives in Brazil, far away from our family in Miami.
Gust smattered gobs of snow glommed to spruce
shingled white, then, through snow fume, a hint
of living green