.

THE WEIGHT OF NAMES

The night my cousin killed himself
the women in our family would not touch the phone.

All I could think of were the collapsed veins

on his hands, the goatee the morticians shaved off,
the faint stitches they sewed under his neck.

It was dawn when planes streaked across the horizon.

Sirens blared down Sepulveda as if to bid my cousin
farewell. My grandfather sat and said—

He would walk above the clouds

up to the dead… Today I understand
the women’s fears and superstitions

about the dead calling them back—

about my cousin, the only son
who was supposed to carry out

my grandfather’s name.

 

EL PESO DE LOS NOMBRES

La noche en que se suicidó mi primo
las mujeres de nuestra familia no tocaron el teléfono.

Lo único en lo que podía pensar era en las venas hinchadas

de sus manos, en…