If my grandmother’s soul
could fly with the soft
grey feathers
of a young hawk
or the fierce
curved beak
of a great eagle
(who knows if
the winds that
blew away
the powder
of her bones
have left her
more fierce
or more gentle),
would she find me
here on the far
side of the earth,
tucked under
these strange trees,
watching the constellations
point the wrong direction?
Could she forgive
my betrayal
of the homestead
that cradles the dust
of her wrinkled skin,
and land on the bougainvillea
outside my window
to bless me with
her eagle eyes?