Sleep
Hernando Rico Sanchez
Linda Ramsey
I remember when you discovered it.
It was after Sam, you would enter
from out back with the bowl two hands make,
the dirt clinging to their stems, you
learned to sneak it
into everything.
Yes, after Sam,
after the birth of your famous sighs.
(Such pathos, the women would say,
leaving an apple on your sill.)
We’ve gathered here, in your home
to stand and drink your soup.
Inwardly we admit
mourning has made you more beautiful.
Sam was a good boy, we say,
no violence on our tongue,
just memory,
and cilantro.