New poem: A place to press roses but more

I rarely share poems that are in flux, but here is one.

In Catholic school, we were told of one saint
who long after death’s rank scent trail
should have wound itself through her pores,
around her stillness, invisible gardens
outpoured their floral bouquets
and this is how they knew
she was holy.

Mami smells like powdered roses,
tinged with a touch of garlic
that clings to the skin
when the pounding to meal
flavor goes deep and brutal.

Dinner bubbling downstairs,
we share her bed,
my brother on the right
me on the left.
All he needs is silence
to snore his rhythm dreaming.
She turns to me, cradles
me beneath close,
her arm above my head,
that meeting place of salt
and talcum flower.
She turns the pages of the Bible.

Holiness,
when thin pages unfold,
her mouth near singing
the words in Spanish,
divine mysteries unfolding
in the thin afternoon light
that parts the shades.
When wonder embraces so
essentially, seemingly through the pores,
it is easy to forget.

I don’t remember
that this is how we rested
when we were young,
until, Mami is gone,
gone, gone.  At the wake,
there were carnations, wildflowers,
suns bursting from their stalks.

It didn’t seem right
there were no roses.

New poem.  Maybe I’ll read it tonight.  For a first attempt, and considering that I’m trying not to cry in this cafe as I write this poem (obviously way too close emotionally), I think it’s ok.  Thoughts?

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