I don’t dream about my mother,
not bluntly,
but last night I dreamed of New Orleans
and a room that holds a trace of her,
Valerie where she has never been.
I left the five of hearts on the altar
in the old worn house,
where hundreds come and leave
a little bit behind
coins or stones or paper
something they touched
something they held.
I brought her there to New Orleans
I bring her everywhere.

Ancestral minerals, long ago oceans,
the five of hearts in my blood and bones.

I picked up a card
in the Gold Door
the day that Dana, beach bound,
bought her larimar ring
and named her sorrow for a stone she would keep at hand.
The woman with the faceted face
behind the glass and gems
came out and hugged me,
and warned me too,
seeing my tender heart that I couldn’t even see yet myself,
still in my own blind spot.
So I picked up a card, from some random tarot
scattered on scarred but polished wood,
startled into the thought
that some decks are more powerful broken.

This one was Mexican, and I drew
the Fool, but showing bones,
La calaca
the rhythmic click in my mouth
on syllables
telling secrets
to the ghost inside of me.