On the terrace opposite
she skipped ropes in time

as clouds made shapes of her going away
we tried

to assign
smells to touches
and colors to tastes

for years now
the streets flood
in stories of her children

one of them
as i remember
crawls to my bed

underneath pillows of stones
where are the tiny fish
that once tickled her underfeet

dried to a drop
is that my kelo

are these the stories now
that i tender
for times after her going away