Dia de Los Muertos/All Souls’ Day
You are here, all of you,
grit in your teeth,
and the name on the grave
no longer important. Blushing again,
you crave the distinction between the pale
and the merely blasé.
Some people don't get there in time. But you
raided costume shops for ways to go
unnoticed, to slip your hands into other hands.
(You paint your face so that everybody else
can see in you the woman they loved.)
You fantasize that tonight you will actually
turn over in your sleep, rub the bedclothes,
notice a lover beside you. (It is not so.)