Let us now stamp our feet
and with our tears make a circle
in which we’ll mourn the places
where names were lost to memory—
Every garden that bloomed
with sago palm, every patch
of chayote; every ridge tilled
and buttressed or mossy
with stone. The pair of funeral
shops next door to each other,
men playing jueteng on benches
outside. The corner store and its
madonna, nursing her baby
at the breast, handing you
your sack of bread and change
through window grilles. Who lived
here, whose blood fed the roots
of lilies and deciduous trees?
Try to remember: this is where
all the rivers used to live.
In response to Via Negativa: Ceremony.