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