Dementia Cento

Tonight my brother, in heavy boots, is walking
        through bare rooms over my head,

opening and closing doors. Joseph was
        an old man, and an old man was he.

Maybe he is the same age as the forty-three
        from Ayotzinapa, burned and buried

like trash. What can we say to a firefly
        lost in the fire? This question gets stuck

in your dreams. Then comes a moment
        of feeling the wings you’ve grown, lifting.

Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer
        utters itself. All the while, the darkness allows you

to look at him. See how the speckled sky burns
        like trash

        like a pigeon’s throat

Composed with lines from (in order of appearance) The Hour and What Is Dead by Li-Young Lee,
The Cherry Tree Carol (anonymous), A Boy With a Machine Gun Waves to Me by Sandra Cisneros,
Letters to Josephine by Ruth Padel, Citizen by Claudia Rankine, Unfold Your Own Myth by Rumi,
Prayer by Carol Ann Duffy and Nightfall In The City Of Hyderabad by Sarojini Naidu.