Untitles #3

Our grandfather gave us chocolates,
soaked in rum, with hard white shells
me and my sister gathered them
like robin's eggs, hid them
in small wooden boxes. He thought
we loved them and we did, but not
to eat. The bells for the flock
would ring across the valley of lights.

Our grandmother made us scrambled eggs,
nopalitos in red chile sauce, refried beans
with fresh tortillas from her blue-tiled kitchen.
The memory of the first bite of sour and spice
still makes my mouth water. She broke open
an aloe leaf and bathed my sunburned back.
The bells would ring across the valley of lights.

They never told us about martyrs or read us
bedtime stories. Instead, the waters flood down
the mountain when the earth split open
and the horses were swallowed up whole
and the bells continue to ring across the valley.


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