By Cynthia Cruz
I crawl along the wet floor
Of my mother’s childhood,
A serpent, or a long-buried secret,
In my mother’s bisque
Chiffon gown with small stars
Stitched in silver, a crown
Of tinsel pinned into the dark
Blonde knots and dreads of my hair.
I follow a sequin thread of dead
Things, stop when the moon clocks out,
Polish my long nails in the sun.