She’s framed in the swale

of the hills

behind her, while the wind’s hands

sweep her hair, thrumming

each strand.

Nostrils wide like she must have inhaled

sour fumes, eyes near closed, her copper skin

bathing

in a torrent sun. They say I look

like her now as she did then, but I don’t

know the woman

tucked between valleys, I only know Abuela

singing to me as I lay on her lap

sana, sana, colita

de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana.