It begins wordless, hum and sway 

as telenovela ghosts draw Abuela across the room, 

eyes closed as she takes my husband’s hands, 

crooning lyrics he can’t follow but a tune 

he can move through. Can she remember how 

many times she’s sung that chorus today? 

Now she cries, Tuve dos maridos 

y los dos están en el cielo!

I had two husbands, and both are in the sky, 

his sister translates. In heaven, explains his father, 

who doesn’t believe in God but can

recite the rosary with the best of saints.

All the words you need you’ll find 

in a love song, my dad once said. 

In west Texas, between days of slaughter, 

sow, and reap, the radio taught him 

what no book could. Neighbors’ sorrows wailed 

in ballads. Their joy danced through mariachi.

But I know next to nothing, my tongue still 

more sputter than roll. 

I count the paths taken to land me 

twirling under a roof of woven accents: 

three weddings, two countries, one divorce,

countless conjugations for a broken I love you.

Juntos! Juntos! Abuela orders, pressing

our palms like a prayer. Together!

Without music we spin, arms tangled, 

chests aligned. For this, there are no words.