wander-root

There are roots

and rhizomes of me, still—

lain, forsaken in

the arid graves

and rust

of Northern México—

mi Bisabuela, with her wild, running spirit,

may have borne the bloodline of

the Rarámuri—

we will likely never know.

I was raised to see

my lineage as

an olive tree—

to believe I am

a vineyard-wisp:

a drop of grape among

the silvergrove

of rosemary,

(that I)

was sown

from the lime

and terracotta of

the rolling slopes

of Tuscany—

but the mystery of

mi Bisabuela whispers to

the wind-drift,

tumble-weed meander of

my bones:

“Hurry, mija, hurry—

una raicita of you grows

among us, still—

you were meant to bud

and burgeon as

a desert cypress."

My twisted limbs are a

mycelium—

a filigree of tendril-dream

and hunger-leaf

all stretching up to touch

the sky—

I am a sepal,

a phyllary of

phantom-bloom,

unfurling,

ever-asking in reply—

Dear Bisabuela, why

did you abandon us?

My limbs are strained

and aching for

your answer.

Nono never spoke of you—

he only mumbled broken thoughts

in Spanish to

your absence while

he watered bell peppers

and fig trees on

his acre plot of land—

there,

he pruned himself to be

a graft,

in fiore e ramo,

of his father, born

in Lucca.

.

And this is how

my mother’s side

forgot your culture,

Bisabuela.

go-go-go…

In your rootlessness,

no one planted juniper,

or piñón-tree,

or propagated stalks of yucca, with

their season-steady,

sword-like leaves;

.

you fled with a

deciduousness that

is anything

but evergreen—

you left your legacy—

my grandfather—

an almost-orphan.

(run-run-run…)

My branches search

for words the way

the drylands pray

for petrichor

and rain—every vine of me

a poem that wraps

calligraphy around

your cholla-ghost,

your cactus-bloom,

your name:

Delfina Alvarado—

my great-grandmother:

missing reina of

the vast,

Chihuahuan plains—

cradle of the Rarámuri—

can you hear me?

.

I learned to speak

your language—

{te quiero, siempre}—

but I fear

I am too far removed to claim

I could ever be

a desert cypress.

rush-rush-rush…

But the nodes

and meristem of me

still plead in willow-soft

refrain:

Bisabuela—

¿Me escuchas?

My thoughts

and thistled-wants

are dandelion-tuft-itinerant—

(and when)

I summon distant kingdoms, in

my mode of write-to-drift-away,

I'm

all stems

and tendrils to

embrace you:

I see you, Bisabuela—

you and I are not

so different.

flee-flee-flee…

stray-stray-stray…

.

My questions effloresce

beyond the tree-top crowns

and clouds

of generations' ache;

I writhe-and-coil

in foreign soil, knowing

these are spores I mustn't wake—

(still, I beckon you):

I am wind-born, Bisabuela.

Your cypress-resin races

through me—

could it be

at least...in poetry—

I gallop with

the spirit of

the Rarámuri, too?

(Or—is believing this forbidden?)

Do you watch me now—

admire how

I chase my ancestry?

Or will you flee

from musing seeds of me

forever?

run-run-run...

drift-drift-drift...

ground-ground-ground...

bloom-bloom-bloom…

In my dreams

my leaves tilter to face

your dustland’s potent sun—

(there, I plant a kiss for you—)

you will always be my wander-root.