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I walked into my grandmother’s dream,
it’s not uncommon, and saw her tearing
envelopes open with a trowel. She reached
into them and grabbed fistfuls of pollen.
I worried about paper cuts but her skin
remained undisturbed. She looked up at me
and said elm, sorrel, willow, alder
in perfect English.
I awoke, intact, one hand on my chest,
the other almost touching my hip.
When she returned from her last trip to Cuba,
my grandmother didn’t recognize my mother.
She looked at her arms, where my mother was holding her,
and said todas son heridas nuevas. A week later
she told us the details: the remains
of her street, more than a dozen tailless cats,
rusted bicycles, her entire city an artifact.
Last night she walked into my dream, her arms folded
across her chest, then she recorded something
in a notebook, maybe the frequency of rain
or the appearance of tin or bronze.
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