wooden bells over the lavender. in the belfry alcove, the hum
of ghost bees. abuela at her loom threads the last butterflies and indigo
and hangs the festival chili peppers to dry.  

her hands put me to bed with my sisters, Nina Bell and Maya Blue.
we crescent each other’s bodies. the blood-purple of yarn tangling over
our fingers and mouths, knotting the bird-shaped place of your absence.

when I speak your name, the butterflies fly out of the loom cloth.
their wings cover our mouths. we cup the pooling moons of each other’s faces
and whisper in the language of lost daughters.

that my words would tremble the lavender instead of your memory
that I could gently speak for you, to whisper,
to keep you from the infinite exile of your name.

at dawn the bodies of my sisters are beeswax at my feet.
I stand in the lavender. I call out your name
and the swarm of ghost bees drowns.