I am the sparkle-filled sequence of something long torn apart, dissection left to rest, not to reconcile what is lost with what is left, craters shine where culture should be— How can I possess your lost skin, abuela, ink language on outermost cavities, Calavera with Our Lady of Guadalupe firmly to each thigh... Syllables linger like sand—appear in floor-cracks by washing machine, stick in trunk-fabric of car, mue-, crá-, escar- I can’t reach deeply enough into these porous fields to retrieve, examine collage of peach speckles, black shark’s tooth, foreign fragments. Syllables linger like Spanish moss on tallest limbs of Family Tree.