Post Canvas #4 by David Goodrum
Cementerio de la treinta de Marzo by Gabriel Ramirez
I can't say I haven't imagined life
without them. Caskets challenge
my strength more than any god.
Abuela Ana's niche above Abuelo's
through the narrow cementerio.
Every tombstone, a set of eyes
studying the shake of my arms.
Couldn’t we have rehearsed this?
The route at least? My first time
on the island. My first time in the sun.
Spare the rosaries. Fill my hands
with baby’s breath. I imagine
your life without me almost every day.
Construct black marble pillars.
Waterfalls flowing into pools
lined with gold. Each name blooms
back into their body. Every reanimated
love crafts the heaven of my brain. Abuelo
shuffles dominos. Offers a seat. Smiles
at our ability to reach for each other
and touch. Abuela Ana rubs his back
and kisses the top of his head. It’s always morning.
Ever-growing mausoleum.
Orchids sprouting peach
where Mommy will enter.
I could hear her calling me
by my father’s name. Armando.
Him behind me. My arms and
our hands cradling her into light.
Imagination failing the living.
Mommy. Still here. Another room
or island. No need for me to pen
breath into her. Could list her
hundred smiles, neither favored
over the one she has right now.
Let me witness wherever she takes
her body, posing in gold, and write that.
without them. Caskets challenge
my strength more than any god.
Abuela Ana's niche above Abuelo's
through the narrow cementerio.
Every tombstone, a set of eyes
studying the shake of my arms.
Couldn’t we have rehearsed this?
The route at least? My first time
on the island. My first time in the sun.
Spare the rosaries. Fill my hands
with baby’s breath. I imagine
your life without me almost every day.
Construct black marble pillars.
Waterfalls flowing into pools
lined with gold. Each name blooms
back into their body. Every reanimated
love crafts the heaven of my brain. Abuelo
shuffles dominos. Offers a seat. Smiles
at our ability to reach for each other
and touch. Abuela Ana rubs his back
and kisses the top of his head. It’s always morning.
Ever-growing mausoleum.
Orchids sprouting peach
where Mommy will enter.
I could hear her calling me
by my father’s name. Armando.
Him behind me. My arms and
our hands cradling her into light.
Imagination failing the living.
Mommy. Still here. Another room
or island. No need for me to pen
breath into her. Could list her
hundred smiles, neither favored
over the one she has right now.
Let me witness wherever she takes
her body, posing in gold, and write that.
Gabriel Ramirez is a Queer Afro-Latinx poet. You can find their work in Bettering American Poetry Anthology (Bettering Books 2017), What Saves Us: Poems of Empathy and Outrage in the Age of Trump (Northwestern University Press 2019), and The Breakbeat Poets Vol. 4: LatiNEXT (Haymarket Press 2020).
David Goodrum (Corvallis, Oregon) has had photography published in various art/literature journals and juried into many art festivals. He hopes to create a visual field that transports you away from daily events and into a place that delights in an intimate view of the world. See additional work at www.davidgoodrum.com.
