for Ximena Gómez
Two years ago, we flew to Colombia. Your father
Had died in Cali, and you’d asked that the funeral
Be delayed until we arrived. His body waited for us,
Dressed in neatly pressed clothes, in bronze make-up
To give his cheeks color. Your nephew put a drawing
In the casket, and everything went smoothly
Like the conveyor belt that took your father behind
A curtain and on to cremation, there or somewhere else—
I wasn’t sure. We stayed in San Antonio, far away
From your family and your friends, whitewashed buildings,
Narrow sidewalks, and terracotta tiles, a steep hill
Leading up to a church—at night, motorcycles
And people dancing, cafés with the hiss of
Espresso machines, couples standing in doorways,
Talking in low voices. We stayed in San Antonio,
And we walked on the narrow sidewalks and smelled
The coffee and rolls coming from the bakery, the
Only place open on Sunday morning. Two years
Isn’t that long, but long enough for everything to change,
For the world to have stopped, to have buried its dead,
Restarted, stopped again, and buried more. All the while,
In a neighborhood in Miami of wooden townhouses, half-empty
Malls, and apartment buildings that are showing their age,
We’ve done what they call “sheltering in place,” waiting
For the sickness to be over, the equilibrium to return.
We still hold each other at night, lips touching lips,
Hands tracing the contours of our bodies, reminding
Each other that we’re still alive, still full of memories
Of walking down narrow sidewalks, of whitewashed
Buildings, of music spilling out of clubs and restaurants,
Of rough sheets that still smell of the laundry, of desire
Stronger than grief.
