Is that my grandmother died before she could see
what they did to her country. Years ago,

we buried her beneath the prickly pears
in the backyard. Prayed that she’d never go hungry

again. But land, like family, remembers sins
that can never be forgiven. Looking back,

I can almost see it: the time when rain would run
home to the body it came from.

For centuries, Lake Texcoco swayed in her jade skirt,
hair braided into a chinampa of reeds,

growing the way only a woman who is loved
can grow. Then, the Spanish. A city built

like a scab over a wound. At the end of each visit,
when I had to let Mexico go like a firefly

from my knuckled fist, my grandmother would trace
a circle on the back of my hand.

Who are we if not our history of thirst?