Absence, Presence

–Luisa A. Igloria

Every absence is an ancestor: speak to it,

ignore it, feed it, turn it out of doors,

it will not matter— It knows where you live,

which side of the pillow you prefer in sleep,

where you buy eggs and milk and toilet

paper. It knows whom you last kissed on the mouth,

how you cried to read that poem written by

your daughter, your bewilderment at the stroke

after stroke of bad luck that came the year

you decided to say I do to your green, unproven

heart. The roses in the garden bloomed and withered,

and then came back. Dormant doesn’t mean dead,

only sleeping. Winter is another form of absence,

some say a kindness: substituting white

after white for all the gutted fields before

their softening in spring. Absence, presence—

I bow to you my ancestors; I stoke the fire

and save the bones for soup in these cold months

when I am most reminded I am your kin.

Photo by Dominic Sansotta on Unsplash