I, My Grandmother

My grandmother seasoned Saturday soups with songs,

but never the ones from the land she left behind.

She anointed my scalp with oil,

plaited my hair with prayers,

spooned love with the chocho into my mouth.

I am now my grandmother,

braiding my hair with poems she will never read,

stirring salt and psalms into the Dutch pot.

I cover my head with her mantilla of prayers

and smile at the moth that visits at dusk,

and watches over me.