When I dream of my grandfather
I see myself cutting off bits of his hair
As he lays in an antibiotic room
Surrounded by the beep-beep of him
I take the clippings
And grind them in my molcajete
Mix in pocketed soil dug from
The graves of plum-bruised women
Use the pestle to pulverize
The concoction with spit
—He cries clutching his hollow chest—
I take his tarred pomegranate heart
And pound it in the round of the bowl
As he begs for forgiveness I smile
Take the molcajete to my mouth and
Lick the remedio
My full mouth cannot forgive
Instead I
Take what bit my family
Cure our blood of his rabidness