(a sestina...with no envoi)

Mamita was a woman of bony feet,
Dark eyes that burned against light
Skin. Black hair so fine it wld turn to ash
In your fingers. Her husband, my grandfather, Pablo
bore witness to her life in brown
House shoes. Shuffling through memory. I remember

Cousins’ birthday parties & folding tables. Every member
Of the 12-and-under crew slapping concrete with bare feet
Because rubber sandals slowed us down. So ash
Gathered between our toes, remnants of cigarettes Pablo
Refused to smoke but Mamita loved. The end of a Marlboro lit
Up like a star during summer block parties and “brown-

Outs” (we did not call them black cus brown
Was all we knew). During Mah Jong games the ash
Wld fall onto the brite yellow plastic table cloth. Devoted Pablo
Playing with the grandkids, as old ladies tapped red clawed feet
Against the table’s metal legs. I could never remember
How to play the game rite, so I sat twirling the light

In between strands of my hair. I was the lightest
Of my cousins, and Mamitas favorite. Our native brown,
The color of coconuts and deep fried pork, gleamed in Pablo’s
Skin alone, which age had tucked into elephant-folds. He never remembered
The questions he asked me. Instead, he’d sprinkle baby powder like ashes
On the backs of our necks. This WWII General who never admitted defeat

Even when diabetes swallowed Mamita’s left foot, whole.
She never sacrificed her luxuries to her disease. So the sweet brown
Coke confections sat in her blood and ate her from the inside. Pablo
And Mommy and Tita Giselle pleading with Mamita, “don’t you remember
What the Doctor said? Ano Kaba?” But spoiled, beautiful, light-
Skinned Mamita, would rather turn to ash

Then to deny herself what she deserved. A garden of ashes,
A testament to bull-headedness. Mamita stood up to death on one good foot.
Refused to listen to Mommy. Would not remember
When to take her shots. Drinking down warm brown
Branded liquid to bubble in her veins. No antidotes, just light
Dancing on the rim of the glass. And Pablo

With his hands clasped in prayer, on her deathbed. Pablo
Crying at the crematorium. Mommy took pictures to remember
The look on Mamita’s face before blood turned to ash.
I don’t understand her motives, but the ways of brown
Skinned people are funny. We stumble in the light
& tango on tightropes with falling feet.