by Angela Acosta
I met your ghosts many times,
arm extended like marbled Artemis with her bow,
following the parabolic arc of an arrow
through shared meals, embraces, and transatlantic flights.
The hardness of the path you made me follow
gave me planter fasciitis as I waited on cobblestones,
wishing that Columbus would point his finger west of Barcelona,
a path home lit with cempasúchil flowers.
I stand at an impasse, unable to cross
through your chosen homeland or speak in your voice
as mother tongues turn sour from misuse.
Where I have not been, you have rendered visible
in moments of pause sent from el más allá, the great beyond.
© 2025 Angela Acosta All rights reserved.
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