When I think of Mexico,
and I think of you, suegra,
I see the pains that have gathered
around you like the loving stones
that once were the path to your house.

Few stones remain uncovered
to be touched by the soles
of your shoes-
a barrier separates them

a smooth, landscaped cement barrier,
pleasing to foreign eyes,
but somehow all wrong,
like enchiladas in mole.

Gather them,
those remaining stones,
walk on them,
douse their heads in geranium water,
commend them to your Virgen,

but most of all,
don’t let that barrier stop you
from feeling the roughness
of the absent under your feet.