Grilled taquitos
filled
us plus
we quenched
the mosquitoe’s blood lust.
Watermelon chunks,
(replenished)
no thirst—
radio—
say
it
ain’t so— spoken word rehearsed/
again and again
And England is pinned on the calendar
(in the kitchen where
shredded ginger lingers in the air
imbedded like rhyme and rock
in my mind
I find
A
lost
ghost
of thought
who walks right
with my eyesight
leaning close
Close as clothes and lips and nose
Abreast to breath
My ghost
is telling me
it’s almost
time to
salute
my
roots
(return
to sender)
I’m a member
don’t shoot I
surrender
with
tender
intent
I
am
You
through
Familial
Descent