Lost on a Hike With my Family 

here 

when it grows dark

and you are lost

in thoughts

of death

you pretend

to know the way because

to say anything else

would be to lose them all already;

and you pray without words

and without hope

until Teta springs like

some strange flower

inside your blood,

and you hear her,

the sternness that scared you,

hushing you in her firm love, 

taking you in her arms, now, 

and when you broke

into her garden

to smell the rough stems

of her tomato plants — 

and you freeze

and you listen as she sings 

in old languages

the songs that still make you cry.