Crossword Puzzle
I drop the phone, a siren of death,
and watch it explode into a jigsaw of plastic pieces.
My grandmother told me that in her village, she
wore white to funerals, chanted nails-thick verses,
and prayed at mouth-wide monstrous altars.
Later, the rituals became sharp-tongued chants
and thrummed mirrors in closets. Someone screamed,
I think it was me. I cannot sidestep grief,
punched with inch-wide block font.
You must stand straight, my mother says.
No one wants to see a Cassandra in mourning.
It’s a chance to get a second look at her. The pressed
ivory dress with stockings to match, pearl drop earrings, and
alabaster lace gloves: the smell of sweet smooth sandalwood.
And I, a discipline of funerals, materialize. In my
tight throat, the sounds collate: give me a ten-letter word
for tears.
Dorsía Smith Silva is a Professor of English at the University of Puerto Rico, Río Piedras. Her poetry has been published in Portland Review, Mom Egg Review, Stoneboat, Moko Magazine, and elsewhere. She is also the editor of Latina/Chicana Mothering and the co-editor of six books.
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