Our Lady

I was like another daughter over your stove,stuffing grape leaves, filling clay bowls.

You told me our foundation is heat,as the smell of a fried jalapeñograted against the things that won’t change.

Bones running thin,kneading life out of bread.

The thunder rising with the yeastand soft fat of our arms.

My daughter inside me,made of women who came before you.

Your mother climbed a mountainjust to name you.

You were crazy the day after the wedding.You told me I joined a clanand all decisions go through you, first.

Dreaming of the matriarch,I chewed on it and spat back at you.

I still loved you—over the phonefrom the maternity ward—I told you—

shove it up your ass. Do you understandthe word, lonely? Because I thinkyou are—rising with the rain and thunder.