But the sarcophagus of celibacy is alabaster and sealed her to her fate. This was not what biographers investigate, nor did Mrs. Gandhi think it apropos to leave behind her personal thoughts.

In the stillness of the night, when cicadas sang with longing, did Mrs. Gandhi listen?

Poem Written at Midnight

I felt so alone

In my marriage

With my husband,

Who was not my husband.

And so I let him go.

I feel so alone

In my city

That is not my city.

And so I hope to flee.

I feel so alone

In my life

That is not my life.

Suéltame, mi vida.

Ya no soy tuya.

Deja de hacerme infeliz.

Year of My Near Death

Six months after

my mother died

a ribbon unspooled

from my uterus

like a stillborn child.

At fifty-three

the womb awoke,

exhaled,

and spoke

one last time.

For my mother’s sake,

my own.

I, who birthed

no one in life,

birthed grief.

Thin red line

on a road map

guiding my escape

from servant

to master.

From daughter

to adult ever after.

My body spoke

once before

at thirty-three,

year of my near death,

year of my cross.

I succored despair

with silence, sleep.

Measured self-

worth by others.

A child still

borrowing to pay

the bills. No good

at anything but words.

And what good were words

when the month began?

Nine months the uterus

did not breathe.

Nine months wavered

before the breach.

Saved by Providence,

angels or ancestors.

Stigmata to prove

this story true.

I’ve died twice and twice

survived. At thirty-three,

the Christ year.

And twin decades later

when my mother

transformed herself

to light.

Twice died.

Twice death-defied.

Marvel at the body’s power

to speak, mend, resurrect.

Forgive.

Letter to Pat LittleDog After Losing Her Son

I don’t think we can love too much, do you?

I think there is an ad infinitum to give

and receive love. And I know as fact

we continue to receive love after

this thin life. I know, not believe,

this is law. Perceived like water

wrinkled by wind. Or,

can’t-be-ignored as lightning.

You are a woman who knows the

knowing. I hope your son continues

speaking. And you continue listening.

My father speaks to me

like the wings of a stingray.

My mother shimmers in air,

a silver moth. I know when

they are here. As in life,

different as ever.

One is water.

The other atmosphere.

But what I do

not know in this lifetime,

to love as a mother loves a son.

I want to say as they say here,

I accompany you in your dolor.

Accompany you and all who

carry this wound daily.

I, who birthed no one.

May I give you

the moon as consolation?

May it bring back your boy.

Add his name to the conversation

of light you send and give.

Receive and send. Receive

this love I send tonight, my friend.

Día de los Muertos