I talk out loud to ghosts
and never mind how it sounds.
Stella, I tell her, I’m sorry I did not keep up
your garden. The bougainvillea must be
with you now, but the barrel cacti
are huge and house those rock squirrels
you love. I still rely on the medium of nectar
for hummingbirds, a flashlight for snakes
and wish I could roll rocks around
the desert as you did at 80.
Aunt Hannah, I am listening to a fairy tale
novel with incantations sung in your voice.
I can say the names of the citadel streets
and feral girl who saved its wild horses.
For the long dead, I chat to no one
over coffee with cream, as we used to,
but for those recently gone, even for
the trivial, I can’t help but address the sky.
Zayda, I tell it, you would like these pretzels.
They have lots of salt
