The angel seated beside the potted jasmine 
must have known when they wheeled in

the hospital bed; and the polished wood floor
gleamed like a sheet of water. We are told

the grass surrounding the house had grown tall
and thick, green buffer against the sharp

noises of the street. In one of the bookshelves,
an atlas, a map of the world: every turned

page calling to the soul to bend in, closer.
Soon, a continent assembles into its individual

countries. Islands bob like hearts in the distant
blue, trusting the water. Now the throat

can swallow without straining, the eye blink
fully open in the sun. Here her body lay

in the middle of the room, home port and first
destination; released, now finding her way.

~ in memoriam, Aurora Villaseñor Igloria

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