An Offering (Of)r(End)a(s)

What is this?

Another poem.

Another poem is just as well,

A deep well,

Of well,

Then ... what?

Memory comes next.

I’m asked to gaze

At my hands.

When I look at my hands,

Usually,

I stare at my nails.

But not today,

Because the question is who

Not what.

Nails pounded into a coffin.

Her coffin lowered into a grave,

Dug.

Not

For her

Not

A well.

Dug deep, still

No water, still,

The years gathered,

Drawn up,

Like water.

And there's more,

Space.

For keeping. For resting.

Above water,

I breathe.

I’m told. I’m supposed to breathe.

Not drown.

A far away forgotten call

Makes my hands

Holding bitten, bloodied nails,

Not smooth, or sharp,

Still holding on,

Offering

What?

I asked my mother's hands this question

Then other women, other girls

In farther away places, faraway places

Where I already knew I didn’t belong.

Nails.

Nails stick out of the wall.

Thick and fragile.

Coverings removed,

And added,

Reveal more nails.

Across floorboards and desks,

The ofrenda rises

LED, not candle, lit.

Stripped edges waver like the veins

Folded in my lap.

I’m asked to gaze, again,

At my hands.

Into the emptiness of what I might be,

Not be,

Holding in my mother’s hands.

My ring is

Clouded gray. Dirty water. Smudged odor.

The silver reminds me

Of me

Of the cost of remembering

Of the land that taught me remembrance.

I breathe.

I’m told. I’m supposed to breathe.

My forehead strains to hold my eyelids up,

Nails.

I stare at my lap.

I need nails.

Not one, nor two, nor three

Días

Breathe. I’m supposed to breathe.

Dust.

365

Día de los

Nails

Nails too short to pick up dirt

Cleaning the

Muertos’

Final resting place.

What was this?

A poem? A rest? An end?

Nails bent inward,

Hands folded

An altar

(Of)r(end)a(s).