On the Death of her Lover, my Brother

Dry leaves
softly stirring,
soundless.

Dry hands
with paper skin,
harsh bones.

Spanish:
Mi amor, mi amor!
"My love."

A smudge—
mascara runs—
bruised eyes.

A smudge—
the make-up thins—
bruised palm.

Spanish:
¿Por qué, Dios?
"Why, God?"

She cries
like only she
has lost;

she mourns
only what she
has lost.

Spanish
wailing; gaudy,
for show.