i've looked for you in
my mother's eyes and
your spot by the window but
both have been empty for so long
even the dust has gotten lonely.

on the corner of w shattuck
there is a Mexican mercado
where my mother used to buy
me dulces. i saw you
painted onto their wall.
arms full of groceries and baby
children and old dreams
tugging at the hem of your dress.
this corner of america,
with chipping paint and a sinking foundation -
the last piece of Home you had left.

your language, sharp and shifting,
always scrapes the corners of my mouth.
hangs in the back of
my throat like wind chimes; i think
it's starting to rust.