When I squeeze the rind of an orange
so that citrus vapors can flavor the air,
my grandfather is a tecolote
blooming pellets from his throat.
What other animal dreams this way?
My arms hold me there
—only this time
I am not pretending they belong
to a woman so in love
she would flatten herself
to get this close. This time
I am just holding onto skin.
When I conjure you
it is always the intersection
of water and spirits.
My grandfather watches a moth
tracing the orbit of fruit
around his head and we’re no longer
climbing trees. Sitting in the living
room. He is no longer
listening to me read
Viramontes tell of generations.
When he closes his eyes
he falls back into his seat,
holding the small wing of an insect,
a longer strand of women’s hair.